


Collar Me (Don't Collar Me)

by CaramelMachete, spread_my_wings



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Broken Bones, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussion of Amputation, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Major Character Injury, Medical Jargon, Medical Procedures, Nausea, Nightwing (1996) #93, Not Beta Read, Recovery, Sorry Not Sorry, Surgery, We're sorry, happy birthday dick, hurt!Dick, vague references to events of Nightwing 93, we die like mne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-11-27 13:51:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18195446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaramelMachete/pseuds/CaramelMachete, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spread_my_wings/pseuds/spread_my_wings
Summary: A basic patrol ends in a common injury. However, complications may turn a simple broken arm into something potentially career-ending. Dick copes as best as he can. Until he doesn't. His family tries to help.





	1. Let's Play Twister, Let's Play Risk

**Author's Note:**

> Read the additional tags, please. There's a few semi-graphic descriptions of pain and injury, as well as a brief fight scene. We're going to give Dick a bit of a hard time, but we promise a happy ending. Eventually. 
> 
> Canon - never heard of it. Lian and Roy are both still alive. We do what we want.

The vernal equinox, marked by a full moon and clear skies for once, allows Nightwing to take full advantage of a chance to burn off some excess energy as he runs the roofs of Gotham after a quiet week, full of stakeouts and computer research. Simple leaps have added flips and turns; swings from one building to another involve far more acrobatics than is strictly necessary. He’s in the air more than on the ground and there’s a grin on his face as he flies. 

It’s been too long, and he needs this.

He stops a mugging. Then, he is in the right place at the right time to break up a heated arguments that looks to get ugly without intervention. And he tracks down a dog who’s spooked and pulls free from his owner as they take their evening walk. None of it is earth shatteringly important, but it’s useful, and he’s glad to be out and about, doing something.

He keeps a close eye out for any runaways. There isn’t an official case from the GCPD yet, but Commissioner Gordon has passed the information along that some of the kids on the street have reported friends missing. It’s hard to prove they’re gone when there’s no official record of their presence, hence the lack of an official investigation, but that’s never stopped the Bats, before.

Nightwing veers away from the rooftops along the major roads and heads towards the back alleys, where crimes might be smaller but they also have less regular police presence. Besides, there’s been rumors that some of the missing teens had disappeared in the sewers under this area. Nightwing breaks up a small robbery, leaving the perps tied up after he calls it in.

A few more leaps across more roofs and he takes a moment to survey the area. Overall, it’s been a quiet night for major supervillain action, but that might be changing as he spies an abnormally large male figure in a trench coat and trilby head down a small side street, keeping to the shadows. Nightwing moves silently to get a better view, suspicions vindicated when he sees the form of a reptilian tail trail along the ground from under the coat tails. He follows the figure - must be Killer Croc - down the side street to an alley with an extra-large manhole down to the sewers. 

“Nightwing to Oracle. I’ve spotted Croc at the small alley by Jimenez Street and 54th. Looks like he’s heading to the sewers. I’m going to follow.”

“Negative, Nightwing. Do not engage. Do not follow.”

“Isn’t Croc on parole? And isn’t part of that parole contingent on him staying away from the sewers?”

“True, but you know the rules. Croc is strictly a two-person or more fight. Wait for backup.”

“I can’t think of a single good reason for him to be here and plenty of bad reasons.”

Oracle pauses, and Nightwing hears the faint sound of her rapid typing over the comm. “Red Robin is ten minutes away. I’m alerting him now.”

Batman’s voice breaks into the chat. “Nightwing, Croc is too dangerous to take on alone, especially in the sewers, unless you see a crime actively being committed. Do you see any such signs?”

Nightwing snorts. “No, which you already knew, because I would have reported if I saw anything.”

“Wait for Red then.”

Batman clicks off. 

Nightwing sits back on his heels. Fighting Croc in an enclosed space plays to all of Croc’s strengths while hampering Dick’s own never-touch-the-ground style, but Croc risking his parole to head into the sewers in the same place runaway kids are going missing is as good as a flashing sign spelling out “Up to No Good.” Dick can follow, stay out of sight, confirm whether Croc is up to what Dick thinks he’s up to, or maybe Croc has just started his own salmon farm in the Gotham sewers. Dick rolls his shoulders as he weighs up the risks, and the decision, for him at least, is clear. 

Nightwing opens up a private comm line to Oracle.

Babs sighs. “You’re going in, aren’t you?”

“Obviously. Tell R.R. where I am.”

“On your head be it, former boy wonder.”

“Don’t worry about it. I have a plan. If Croc spots me, I’ll bail.”

Unfortunately, no plan survives contact with the enemy. 

Fortunately, however, Dick does… but not entirely unscathed. 

He isn’t planning on engaging; he just wants to follow Croc, make sure they don’t lose him, make sure there’s no funny business going down, because he can’t ignore the voice in the back of his head telling him there’s a high probability that if he doesn’t go, a teen could die. He can’t ignore it.

He also can’t ignore the startled scream he hears down another corridor from the one Croc has taken. Dick pauses to listen, cycles through the different visual settings in his mask as he searches for what he’s sure is a teenage girl… There’s a flash of something shiny and then it’s gone, swallowed up in the darkness and he spins, alert. That moment of concern was almost his undoing, but he’s been trained by the best, is one of the best, himself. Even though he hadn’t quite expected Croc to be so quick, so silent, Dick reacts, escrima sticks in hand. He stops the attack and counters with one of his own, and then another, never remaining in one place.

“Going with Plan B, Babs. Hope Red’s almost here…”

The fight is short. The enclosed spaces of the sewers may not favor his fighting style, but luckily he is flexible - physically and tactically. Adapt, improvise, and overcome. He runs halfway up the sides of the walls and kicks off, using the rough surface to his advantage as he flips midair and lands on Croc’s back. He’s sure Tim is close, or he’d never try the move; he grips Croc’s sides tightly with his thighs and electrifies his escrima sticks, digging them in on both sides of Croc’s head and holding them there. 

It’s a great plan… until Croc goes down and Dick is jumping free and being thrown at the same time. It still would have gone swimmingly, except for Croc’s tail smacking into Dick’s arm. He can’t tell exactly what’s happened at first. It hurts, and it doesn’t and it hurts again, and he looks down to make sure his hand is still there, because everything feels weird and wrong for a moment and he hasn’t processed the injury yet. And then everything catches up and lurches into place and he knows he’s snapped one, if not both, of the bones in his forearm. Still, better a snapped bone than the snap of Croc’s teeth.

Dick flips backwards twice, arm clutched tight against his stomach, to give himself some space and maybe buy a little time.

“Got you, Birdie,” Croc hisses.

“Ah, ‘tis but a flesh wound,” Dick says, readying the escrima stick in his good hand. The odds are now a lot less attractive, but still, he can get out of this. Now would be a great time for Tim --

A batarang cuts through the dim light in the sewer, then a sudden flash-bang. Croc bellows and brings his hands up to his eyes.

“My knight in red and black armor,” Nightwing quips. Their own vision was protected by the specialized lenses in their masks. 

“Taser in three,” Red Robin calls. 

“Got it.” 

Red throws another three batarangs, faster than breathing. Dick has to drop his escrima, but manages to throw three of his own. The special ones with miniature tasers. Croc had jumped him from close quarters earlier, preventing him from using them then, but now, they’re perfect. 

Tim hits a button on his glove to power the batarangs up. Electricity crackles over Croc’s body and he crashes to the ground. 

“Excellent timing, as always,” Dick says as he slumps to his knees.

****

“I can’t believe you came out of that with nothing more serious than a broken arm,” Tim says. He holds out a hand for a fist bump, which Dick returns with his good arm. 

“Thanks to you.”

“Anytime.” Tim waves a hand in the air for emphasis, only for a giant yawn to crack his face in half. 

“Get to bed,” Dick laughs. “I’ll be up in a few minutes after Al gives me the all clear.”

Tim nods. “Glad you’re okay, though.” A bit of his panic from earlier is still evident in the lines around his eyes, the pallor of his cheeks. Dick notices of course. 

“You made it in time and took down Croc. I’m okay.”

The tightness around Tim’s eyes and mouth eases a bit. “You gotta stop scaring me like that,” Tim jokes, before turning and heading up the stairs to the main house.

“I’ll stop when I’m dead,” Dick calls to Tim’s retreating back, laughing.

Tim turns around briefly. "Oh, and it's after midnight. Happy birthday, Dick!"

"Thanks!"

Returning to Dick’s bedside with a tray of bandages and a splint, Alfred sniffs. “Perhaps that rejoinder was in poor taste, Master Richard.”

Dick laughs again, quietly. He’s far more shaky and exhausted than he’d willingly admit to Tim or Alfred. Bravado is the best way to cover up the fact that his adrenaline crashed ages ago - about the time Tim helped him out of the sewer - and putting on a brave face helps Dick feel better, too. “I know it was a close call, but I’m okay. Nothing worse than a broken arm.”

Those words haunt him the next day. 

The room is dark when he wakes, but only because Alfred hasn’t pulled the curtains back yet. He can see the strip of light where the curtains don’t quite meet, not through any fault of Alfred’s but because Dick is as much of a morning person as one can be in this family, and likes to see some of the sky. It’s daylight already, early morning, though he isn’t normally up by his own choice at this hour and he frowns. He feels like he’s barely slept all night, though whatever Alfred had given him the night before for his arm was more than enough to knock him out, was enough he should probably still be out now, but his arm aches. No, it hurts like hell, burns and seethes inside the tingling of his skin. 

There’s something wrong, but he has no idea what it is.

He tries to drag a shirt over his head, but his arm isn’t working right, so he grabs an oversized flannel shirt. He gives up after a moment; his arm is tingly and he can’t pull the shirt on over the splint and bandages.

“Alfred?!?” He’s definitely still woozy and sluggish from the drugs, but they’re doing nothing for his arm, and he staggers against the wall as he leaves his room and heads towards the stairs. “Bruce?”

He finally reaches the bannister and slumps forward, his forehead against the wood. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t hear Bruce until there’s a hand on his shoulder. “Dick? What’s wrong?” 

Dick’s breath catches as he holds his arm out for Bruce’s inspection. Even in the light of the hallway, he can’t really see anything other than the bandages, but he knows something isn’t normal, here. The overwhelming pain is the biggest clue. It feels like electrified lava has pooled inside his arm.

“Fuck, Bruce… it hurts…” He chokes off a cry as Bruce examines the fingers sticking out from the pressure wrap and splint.

“Sit, and lean back against the wall and hold your arm across your lap.” Bruce helps him into position and begins unwinding the bandage, helping him hold his arm as still as possible. 

Dick closes his eyes and just focuses on keeping his breathing as even as possible. His breath hitches and he groans every time his arm moves, but even those small sounds end once a door down the hallway opens and Tim wanders out.

Dick’s been doing this a long time, and he’s learned plenty of pain management techniques over the years, not only from Bruce but other people he’s had the privilege of working with, and he’s figured out a few techniques of his own. It’s stupid, maybe, but he won’t let Tim see how much he’s hurting. Dick bites on his lip, closes his eyes, and forces himself to focus on that small, familiar pain while he blocks and ignores as many of the signals coming from his arm as he can.

“Dick,” Bruce says, voice low and taut, and Dick opens his eyes. How much time had Dick lost. “Maybe the wrapping was too tight. I’ve taken it off now. Any improvement?” 

Dick meets Bruce’s eyes, thinking the same thing that Bruce is thinking. Alfred doesn’t make mistakes like that. Still, every possibility needs to be evaluated and tested before being ruled out. Dick allows a touch of the sensations from his arm to surface again. Dick feels his teeth pierce his lower lip but this time it can’t distract him from the lightning bolts of pain radiating from his forearm. Tim hovers awkwardly a few feet away, and Dick wants to beckon him closer, to bridge some of that gap. Before Damian, before Dick did the only thing he could possibly do to make Damian stay, Tim wouldn’t have hesitated to take a knee by Dick’s side. 

“No. No improvement.”

Bruce’s brows tighten, the only sign of his concern. “Can you walk?” he asks in the same flat clinical tone but doesn’t wait for Dick’s answer. Bruce reaches behind Dick and under his knees, and before Dick can protest Bruce has lifted him up and is double-stepping down the stairs. Bruce rushes Dick down the massive triple flight of the grand staircase, through the main hallway and formal dining room towards the kitchen. 

“Bruce? What’s going on?” Tim calls as he hurries behind. Good job Tim. Dick wanted to ask the same thing and now he doesn’t have to. 

“No time,” Bruce grunts. He might be the goddamn Batman but carrying Dick is not without effort. Bruce strides down the servants’ hallway into the kitchen. 

“Alfred. I need you.”

Alfred drops the spoon into the bowl he’d been stirring and grabs a towel. He’s moving towards them while wiping his hands before Dick can even process that Alfred was making breakfast. Dick’s birthday breakfast. 

Bruce deposits Dick on the cold granite countertop. “Alfred, what does this look like to you?”

“Symptoms?” Alfred asks.

Bruce answers before Dick can even take a breath. “Pain out of proportion to the injury, increased pain with passive flex, swollen and tense injury site.”

Still fighting against the remnants of painkillers and trying to compartmentalize the agony in his arm away, Dick surfaces to the present enough to ask, “What the hell is going on?” 

“That’s what we’re trying to determine.” Bruce remains close, watching every detail.

“Hold his arm and hand in place, please, Master Bruce. Don’t try to help, Master Dick. Let me move everything for you.” Alfred stretches Dick’s wrist back and forth, then bends his elbow this way and back. He rests his fingers over the inside of Dick’s wrist and nods gravely at Bruce.

Dick’s breaths are far too rapid and shallow, and he can see the darkness at the edges of his vision, can feel his world narrowing to a dark tunnel lit only by lightning flashes of pain. Someone is speaking, but he can’t make out the words. And then everything he’s considered pain up to this point is obliterated by crushing waves of agony sparking from somewhere beyond his fingertips through his arm and up his shoulder. 

The sudden pungent burst of an ammonia capsule fills his nose and he curls up, definitely awake now, and tries to pull his arm away, tries to escape the pressure in his arm. A strangled cry stutters from deep in his throat, and he can barely care about Tim’s or anyone else’s presence; his world has narrowed to pain and gasping breath and little more.

“I’m afraid your fears are well founded, Master Bruce. We must relieve the pressure as soon as possible or he risks permanent damage to the blood vessels or nerves, or even necrosis.”

Bruce leans in, pulling Dick’s free hand into his own. “Breathe with me, Dick. We have to get you stabilized so we can alleviate the pressure building up in your arm, okay? Are you with me? Keep breathing with me. Just like that.”

Dick forces his chest to heave and deflate like a bellow, artificially, through conscious effort on his part. Until the deep breathing and Bruce’s calloused fingers around his hand bring him back enough that he’s aware again of where he is, who he’s with, and what’s happening. 

“If you could bring Master Dick to the cave, I’ll go on ahead and start preparations,” Alfred says. 

“Necrosis. Heh. I don’t like the sound of that, so what exactly is Alfred preparing for?” Dick asks.

Bruce exhales hard and fast through his nose but his expression doesn’t change. “Have you heard of compartment syndrome?”

Tim blanches and his face, not nearly as hard to read as Bruce’s, shifts from confusion to concern. 

Dick jerks his chin towards his younger brother. “No, I haven’t, but it looks like Tim does.”

“Pressure from edema or bleeding within a confined space in your arm - a compartment - can lead to tissue death. There’s a treatment for it, but we need to hurry.”

Dick nods, curls his injured arm protectively to his chest, and swings his legs off the counter to ease himself down. Bruce steadies him from one side and suddenly Tim is there on the other side. 

“Elevator,” Bruce says and Dick nods again, cradling the broken arm in his good hand. He hisses as even his simple steps reverberate from the floor, through his legs, all the way to his fingertips, sending waves of white heat with each foot fall. But Tim and Bruce are there, Bruce’s arm around his waist, Tim’s around his shoulders, and they won’t let him fall. 

In this strange fashion they make their way through the real pantry, then Alfred’s extra kitchen storage, then a fake pantry where the elevator down to the batcave is hidden. The rapid descent to the cave seems to leave Dick’s stomach up by the ground floor, and instead he’s hollow on the inside, leaving parts of him scattered around the manor.

Necrosis. Tissue death. Dick doesn’t need Tim’s hobby of reading the Lancet to know that that can mean permanent injury to his arm, loss of function, maybe even amputation. 

In the medical bay, Alfred is already gloved and gowned, the bed prepped for surgery. Bruce takes in the setup at a glance. “I’ll go scrub up to assist. Tim, you don’t need to see this. Get Dick on the bed and go upstairs.”

Tim protests. “I can help too.” 

“It’s all well and good to read about a fasciotomy online, but quite another thing altogether to see it performed on one’s brother,” Alfred says crisply.

If Bruce of all people doesn’t want Tim involved, and Alfred agrees, then Dick really doesn’t like where this was going. “What are you going to do?”

“It’s called a fasciotomy, my dear boy,” Alfred answers. “I’m simply going to make an incision or two to relieve the pressure that’s building up. You mustn’t worry - you’ll be asleep the whole time.”

“You need to this right now?” Dick asks. 

“Delay can cause serious complications - tissue death, liver failure, even loss of limb.”

Shit. The incessant drum beat of pain, pain, pain makes it hard to think. 

“Dick, let me stay.” Tim squeezes Dick’s good hand. “I’ll just watch your vitals and handle the anesthesia.”

Tim looks so imploring - and also adamant - that Dick finds himself agreeing. “You can stay, if you’re not worried about the . . .” His voice trails off as he can’t bring himself to say it out loud. 

“I believe we’re in time, Dick. It won’t come to that,” Bruce says, his voice deep and reassuring, reading Dick’s mind. 

It doesn’t help the fear. Would he still be able to use his arm when he woke up? A new thought occurs - one that coils like a snake and slithers through his body. Would he still even have an arm? 

Even as he tries to dismiss the thought as merely an excess of paranoia, he can’t stop himself from continuing. Maybe that’s why Bruce doesn’t want Tim to stay. 

“Alfred,” Dick says, and something about the low, hoarse tone stops Alfred from his preparations. He pauses putting the pulse oximeter on Dick’s finger and makes eye contact, most of his face hidden by the surgical mask. 

Dick clears his throat and tries again, forcing the words out past a lump the size of Texas. “Alfred. Will this save my arm?” 

The butler nods but something flickers behind his warm brown eyes. “I believe we caught this in time to save the limb, and full functionality, but I won’t know for sure until I see for myself.” 

“Alfred,” Dick says and then stops, unable to say it out loud again. 

He doesn’t need to.

“I’ll do my utmost. Everything in my power,” Alfred vows. 

Dick nods. It’s not the complete reassurance he’s hoping for but it’s enough. And then Bruce is back, making Dick lie down, setting up an IV, moving briskly. His no nonsense manner despite his urgency reassures Dick as well, and doesn’t leave any room for further questions. His heart hammers in his ears and his abdomen still feels empty and hollow. Thoughts circle uselessly in his mind. What if. What would he do. But before he can get too far down in a spiral of worry, a mask is on his face. 

“Count backwards by three from 99,” Bruce says, an order. 

Obediently - and Dick’s been conditioned from the age of nine to obey that particular tone - Dick starts to count. “99, 96, 93 . . . 90. . . 87” and then he knows no more.


	2. Boxcars Pulling Out of Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick wakes up from surgery and has to come to grips with his new situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medical gore (mild) and references to legal drugs, anesthesia, and eating/drinking.

_He's falling. It's terrifying and familiar. He's flailing and failing to grab his father's hands, to shoot off a grapple, the wind is whistling past him and his cape flutters behind him, choking him, and he cries out..._

A large hand brushes his hair back off his forehead, and then tangles fingers with his. Whispers and murmurs, and Dick blinks awake.

“Br...uce?” Maybe not quite awake. He's fuzzy. Heavy and floaty all at once. “Alf gave... kite…”

Bruce has been through this before with Dick. Too many times, though even once would be too much. Words and concepts jumble between his brain and his lips when he's deeply drugged, when he should be asleep, but keeping him out and resting is like herding cats. Still, this one he can follow.

“Yes, Dick. Alfred has you on ‘the good stuff.’ The surgery went well, but there's still too much swelling, so Alfred hasn't closed the incisions yet. You need to rest and keep your arm still until we can get a cast on your arm.”

“'Kay, Bruce.” Dick turns his head and wiggles his fingers. “Fingers.” His smile is blinding.

“Yes, Dick. Everything's still there.” Except some damaged tissue, but it could have gone so much more badly. “You should still be sleeping.” Even the Batman part of the his brain doesn't think Dick should be trying to wake so soon after a surgery.

Dick frowns and shakes his head. “Falling…” Even whispered, the word encompasses a world of sorrow.

“I’ll stay with you Dick, go back to sleep. It was just a dream…” Sort of. Is it just a dream if a nightmare is of long gone memories? Bruce makes a note to keep a close eye on Dick's sleep, determine if this is just a bad dream brought on by the sleeping pills and painkillers or if he's having nightmares again.

Dick shakes his head again, his entire face wrinkling up in a frown. Just as quickly, it lightens.

“Girl, Bruce. Shiny, dark. She screamed?” Dick's face falls. “Find her?”

“Dick…” Bruce doesn't want to leave, doesn't see a reason to go chasing vague rumors of wild geese.

Dick shakes his head wildly, trying to clear his thoughts, claw his way through the tattered cobwebs of drugged sleep. “Heard a girl scream. Had a sparkly bag… Have to find her. 'Fore he does… Promise, Bruce.” He blinks a few times, each time taking longer before his eyes flutter open again. “Promise…”

And then Dick is asleep again, but he looks tense and worried, even with as many drugs in his system as Alfred dares after the morning's previous scare.

Bruce sighs. He doesn't want to leave, but Dick sounds so sure, is so insistent even through the painkiller haze. He has to check, because it's the right thing to do and to reassure Dick that whatever he saw, no one's in danger. He'll find Alfred, be back in two hours, before Dick is even fully awake again. He places a kiss on his son's forehead and he's gone like a shadow in the noonday sun.

~~~

Light filters into his consciousness. And the feel of soft sheets beneath him. He's back in his bed and he smiles as he wakes. He can't quite grasp it in his mind, but he’s had a hell of a dream. He'll have to share it at breakfast, maybe he can pull a laugh from Tim at his own expense.

Except the light is all wrong, and it isn’t breakfast time, it’s early afternoon. He tries to sit, frowns as he takes in an apparatus holding his arm in place, and it all crashes into him again. It wasn't a dream.

His breath quickens as he tries to take stock of himself, of all his parts. A frame holds his arm immobile, making it hard to even shift in bed. Bandages and wires and tubes obscure his view, but he can see his fingers peeking out, so that at least is a good sign, right?

And while he is in his own room, he’s not on his own bed. He can see that now. Instead, it’s a proper hospital bed, and what does that say about their lifestyles that the Manor has one ready for use? Dick’s certainly not the first one of the family to need to convalesce longer than a couple of nights in the cave.

There's a chair pulled close to his bed, so someone must have been with him until recently. They're not here now, though. At least his arm feels better. Maybe? Still, he’s worried about whatever it is that’s holding his arm in place, and why.

He fidgets, hoping Alfred or Bruce or someone will come soon so he can get up and about and do something, even if it's just going down to the kitchen for a light snack, or finding a quiet nook in the library. Maybe he could drag Tim or Damian into the den for movies, anything but lie around waiting for release from his bed.

“Oh good. You’re awake.” The door to the bathroom opens and Tim appears, looking somewhat the worse for wear. “Much longer and Damian would have come back and broken down the door.”

“Yeah. I’m awake. Can you untangle me from this contraption so I can stare at something other than my ceiling or the strip of sky I can see through the window?” Dick tilts his head in the direction of the frame holding his arm still and wiggles his fingers as if to illustrate his point that he is feeling much improved.

Tim frowns. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

Dick doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, so he tries a breezy, devil-may-care grin. He’d try to sit up, but he’s strapped to the god-damn bed.

“Well, I’m awake and fine now. All fingers and toes intact.”

A moment of uncertainty flashes through him. He wiggles all the fingers on his hand again just to be sure. Yep, still there. He wants to do more than just wiggle his fingers, but the extensive bandaging from fingernails to past his elbow won’t allow it.

“Dick.”

Dick feels like his mind is floating on clouds of cotton and goose down, so he still has plenty of drugs in his system. The pain is so far removed it feels like it belongs to a totally separate body, in a different Dick, one over there. Not here. He can’t help looking around his room one more time, for Alfred or Bruce or Damian. Not that he doesn’t want to see Tim, but he wasn’t used to waking up from surgery without one of them nearby. Usually Alfred, hovering by not hovering in his inimitable butler-trained way.

He focuses back on Tim, though it takes a bit of willpower.

“Alfred made Damian go take a nap about thirty minutes ago. I’m afraid you’re stuck with the afterthought.”

“I wasn’t looking for Damian!” Dick protests, even though technically he had been. But not because he prefers Damian to Tim.

“Look, it doesn’t matter. I know what you meant.” Tim sighs. “Alfred and Damian are resting, and Bruce is out but should be back soon.”

“I want to get up. Are you going to bust me out of this, or do I have to do it the hard way?”

“When Alfred thinks you’re ready, we’ll help you stand. But for now, you can’t move, okay?”

This doesn’t make sense to Dick. Needing two people to help him stand after _arm_ surgery of all things. “What’s going on?”

“I know you can’t see it, but the incisions aren’t closed. You have an open wound from your palm to your elbow on the inside of your arm and another nearly as long on the other side. Not to mention the broken radius and ulna, which we can’t cast yet and won’t be able to for days, so if you want to keep the ability to wiggle your fingers that you’re so proud of right now, you’ll shut up and listen to me.”

Dick closes his mouth hard against whatever silly thing he had been about to say, and forces his still floaty mind to focus. Tim looks awful, much more exhausted than when Dick last saw him this morning. Wait. Was it this morning? Dick takes a deep breath to clear his mind from some of the clouding drugs. “Okay. I’ll shut up if you give me some answers.”

“While Bruce and Alfred caught the compartment syndrome really quickly after you woke up and told Bruce there was a problem, we think your arm was already under considerable pressure by that point. Alfred gave you something pretty strong to let you sleep, but it may have prevented you from waking up earlier.” Tim turns to fiddle with some of the medical equipment by Dick’s bed, as if he doesn’t want to see Dick’s face.

“Which means?”

“I wish Alfred or Bruce was here,” Tim mumbles, still not facing Dick.

“What is going on Tim? You’re scaring me. What does that all mean?”

Tim exhales and turns. “Which means that there was already some tissue damage. Alfred debrided everything he could, but you’re not out of the woods yet. Which means you can’t fucking move your arm.”

Dick waits a moment to process everything.

He has only a faint knowledge about compartment syndrome, but he does know about the underlying complications - muscle damage, nerve damage, necrosis. If Tim is mentioning debridement, that means some level of damage to the muscle from pressure and decreased blood flow, means Alfred has already taken damaged tissue away. At least Dick hopes it was only damaged, and not dead.

Far more things can go wrong if the damage had gone on that long. Infection and swelling are a distinct possibility now, so they need to monitor for that, as well. If the incisions are still open, then obviously he can’t wear a cast…

Fuck.

The contraption holding him in place makes a sudden, horrible sense. He can’t wear a cast, so he has to keep everything in place without one and the elevation is to allow the wounds to drain and prevent further swelling.

 _Fuck_.

“Did he say anything else?” The devil may care grin has melted away, replaced by a quiet, grim acceptance.

He might normally have yelled, thrown a few things, or indulged in a few moments of worry, but Tim is here, and apparently for some reason Dick doesn't know, Bruce and Alfred aren’t. He’s stressed already, and being forced into changing his behavior in his brother’s presence is not helping, but if Alfred isn’t keeping a bedside vigil, things can’t be that bad, right? Maybe he’s just overreacting. No matter what Bruce might have to do, Alfred is always there if any of them might be in any real danger.

Then a flash of memory hits him like a sledgehammer. He’d been injured then, too, shot in the leg, and Bruce had been gone, just like now. At least some of the family are here, now. Tim, Damian… but that still leaves too many unaccounted for. What if…?

“Wait, Tim. What about Bruce? You said you wished he was here. And Alfred. What happened? What’s wrong? Where are they? Did something happen?” Dick can’t shake a sick feeling in his gut, worry that it’s happening all over again, especially when it will be so much more difficult for him to help if something’s wrong.

He's not even sure now if it's a rational fear. And Tim lies to Bruce, even, so maybe he’s hiding something now.

This question, at least, seems to have Tim on more certain footing. His body language visibly relaxes as he starts to speak, but before he can answer, Damian rushes in, followed immediately by Alfred.

“Alfred?” Dick tries to hide his fears, but there’s only so much he can manage. “Where’s Bruce? Is everyone okay?” There’s no safe outlet for the emotions churning inside him, and it’s just making everything worse, especially with the drugs eroding some of his control.

Alfred is beside him in a moment, checking his dressings, checking his vitals, but where Tim wouldn’t meet his gaze, Alfred doesn’t hide. “Everything is fine, Master Dick. Master Bruce is following up a lead on the missing teens in the sewers. I apologize for not being here when you awakened.” He adjusts the drip on one of the medications before he is satisfied and pulls the chair to the bedside.

“How much has Master Timothy told you about your condition?” Alfred’s tone is serious but sympathetic.

He’s known Dick for long enough to know the toll of the struggle ahead of them. He motions Damian and Tim from the room to allow Dick some privacy, give him a break from putting on a brave face and downplaying his pain and fears in front of his brothers.

“There was damage and there are open wounds, so no cast, and I can’t move my arm.” Somehow, Dick manages to sink deeper into the bed with those words. “How long?”

“No longer than is medically necessary, I promise, my dear boy. And we’re looking into alternative treatments, but until then, this is the best solution we could come up with to hold your arm still and allow immediate access to the incisions, should it be necessary. The damage was fairly minimal, considering, but unfortunately there was a period of ischemia, and some slight tissue loss. I am truly sorry. The drugs I gave you to ensure you could sleep quite possibly masked your condition until it was too late.” Alfred raises a pained gaze to meet Dick’s.

Dick shrugs lopsidedly. “You couldn’t have known, Alfie. And I’m a little short on sleep this week, so I was already tired. So that probably didn't have anything to do with it. Forget it, okay? I’m not blaming you, so don’t you go and do it. So, how long am I out of commission?” He doesn’t even accept the possibility he won’t be back out in the field when he heals.

Alfred doesn’t bother arguing the point. If anyone can come back from this, he knows it’s the young man before him.

“At least three months, I am afraid. It’s more than just letting the bone heal and regaining range of motion, and you’ll have to go far more slowly than your normal progress. There is a chance of reinjury with this procedure, and if that occurs, I can’t promise it will heal with enough range of motion to allow your current level of activity.”

Which is a polite way of saying Dick may not be able to continue as a hero, or possibly even be able to continue flying. How can Dick feel so much better, be in so much less pain, and yet have a questionable outlook? He feels like he should be in recovery mode now, taking it mildly easy for a few days before beginning an abbreviated training regimen again.

Dick doesn’t bother whining about life not being fair; he’s learned that lesson at a young age, but it does dim his mood, as if finding he’s confined to bed for the foreseeable future hasn’t done that already.

“Bruce is looking into alternative treatments?” It’s a longshot, but maybe he can shave a few weeks off his mandatory recovery time. Maybe he can manage it in two months. He's never waited the full, normal recovery time for injuries. He has to hope, or he just won’t be able to manage.

“Of course he is, Master Richard. I’m sure he’ll be up to see you as soon as he gets back.”

“Wait, where?”

“You asked him to go check out the sewers as you were coming out of anesthesia. Do you remember?”

Dick frowns as he tries to pierce the drug haze. “Kind of?” He thinks. “Maybe? Not really, I don’t know.”

Alfred hands Dick a tiny can of Sprite with a straw. “Take a sip.” After Dick complies, Alfred takes the can away and then hands him a peanut butter cracker. “Two bites.” Dick is feeling a bit queasy, but he knows better than to argue with Alfred. He takes two small bites. “Now, I imagine that you’re already getting weary of the view of the ceiling. I reckon we can get you up at least enough to comfortably chat to your visitors, maybe even watch a bit of telly?”

“That would be good.”

Alfred hands Dick the little remote to adjust the bed. “I’ll hold the traction steady while you raise up your head until you’re comfortable. Take it nice and slow.”

With Alfred's help, Dick’s forearm doesn’t so much as twitch, but just moving the rest of his body is enough to send throbbing pain up and down his limb. Dick feels sweat bead on his forehead, and stops comfortably shy of a true 90 degree angle. “Okay, that’s good,” he gasps.

Alfred adjusts the apparatus so Dick’s shoulder is at a comfortable angle and rearranges some pillows. “Perhaps the morphine?” He gestures to the button fastened securely to a bed rail.

Dick shakes his head. “Just give me a minute and then can Damian and Tim come back in?”

“Certainly, my boy.” Alfred wipes Dick’s brow and when Dick gives a nod, he pops his head out the door. “We’re ready for visitors.”

The alacrity with which Tim and Damian return show that they must have been waiting right outside.

“Now, no shenanigans from you. Master Dick needs rest and quiet. I suggest putting on a movie while we wait for your father to return.”

The two boys stand against the far wall, as if wary of approaching any closer. That wouldn’t do at all. Dick forces a smile and beckons with his good arm. “Come here, I’m not going to break if you sit next to me. What should we watch?”

Damian returns to the chair he must have been sitting in before Dick woke up, close enough to hold Dick’s good hand. Tim hesitates a bit more, but brightens when Dick asks about what to watch.

“I just got my copy of _Into the Spiderverse._ Have you seen it yet?”

Dick laughs. “As if I ever manage to get to the movie theaters. Put it on.”

Tim does as instructed then pulls another chair next to Dick’s bedside. "I was going to give it to you for your birthday, anyway, but I didn't quite manage to wrap it."

Dick is silent for a moment, clearly thinking. "I completely forgot. Hell of a birthday, huh?"

"You would have likely forgotten even without the injury." Damian is pulling no punches, even with Dick's current somewhat pathetic condition.

"You wound me, Little D." Dick hams it up as much as he can.

"Tt." Damian goes so far as to roll his eyes.

And then the movie begins. Dick manages to stay awake for the entire movie, but not by much.

He also tears up a few times, no surprise, considering, but even Damian is polite enough to pretend to ignore it. Maybe he did worry them more than he meant to, but he won’t complain that Damian and Tim seem to be getting along, for the moment, at least.

The credits are rolling when Alfred comes back. “I believe Titus is getting restless, Master Damian. Perhaps it is time for his afternoon walk?” He turns off the television, clearly signalling the afternoon’s entertainment is at an end.

Damian grumbles, but leaves with no further argument.

Tim stands to go as well, but halts as Alfred puts a hand on his arm.

“If I might have your assistance getting Master Dick up from the bed for a moment before you go?”

“Yeah, sure, Alfred.” Tim stays close, but out of the way as much as possible, letting Alfred navigate the tangle of wires and tubing as he prepares to get Dick upright.

“I suggest you close your eyes, Master Dick. It is imperative you don’t try to help; let us move your arm for you.”

Dick isn’t sure exactly what they’re doing after that; he’s gasping and trying to hold still and do as Alfred has asked, but fuck, it hurts. And he’s dizzy. Definitely a bit nauseous. But after a moment, the room stills, and he opens his eyes. He’s seated on the side of the bed and his arm is elevated. Tim is on one side, and Alfred on the other, holding his arm in place.

“On three? One, two, three.”

Thankfully it’s a slow count. Dick hates that just standing is taking so much out of him. He is already tired of lying around in bed, but getting up is far worse than expected. They only go a short distance, and don’t let go of him for even a second. Within moments, he’s back on the bed, arm being lowered slowly, gently, and then he can try to catch his breath, hopefully without letting Tim know just how difficult that had been.

Dick sends Tim out of the room so he and Damian can eat dinner and Dick can attempt a nap. He’s got a lot to work through, and keeping up a happy face in front of his brothers is exhausting even when he hasn’t just gone through surgery. He assures him they’re welcome again sometime later in the evening, but he desperately needs some time to himself.

Alfred offers a light meal, including a graham cracker with a festive candle, but Dick can only manage to nibble on some saltines. He smiles and thanks Alfred for the effort, but the soup is definitely more than he wants to attempt right now, and even a curly straw can’t tempt him into more than a few sips of water. He refuses another offer of painkillers and tugs the blanket up as soon as Alfred leaves.

Sleep is slow in coming, but eventually pulls him under. It’s maybe not the most relaxing nap he’s ever had, especially since his skin itches beneath the bandages and he can’t find a truly comfortable angle for his shoulder, but he’s tired enough to take what he can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Carnival of Sorts (Box Cars)" by R.E.M.
> 
> Sorry not sorry for doing this to Dick. 
> 
> (Are we going to keep using R.E.M. lyrics for every title? Probably.)


	3. Step Up - The Sky is Open Armed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Dick talk. Lian and Roy visit and there is much cuteness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Nausea, queasiness and vomit mentions. (Dick doesn’t actually throw up.)
> 
> Oblique references to Nightwing 93.

The warmth of the blankets feels good when he wakes, but it’s not enough to lull him back to sleep. His shoulder spasms, and he gasps. A bare second later, strong hands are soothing the aches and cramps from his shoulder and upper arm. He melts back into the bed in relief as the pain slowly recedes to a manageable level. His arm is aching, still, but that’s to be expected, and it is easier to bear than some injuries he’s had over the years.

Bruce hands Dick the button for his morphine pump, pressing it firmly into his palm. “What do you think you could manage to eat?” Bruce doesn’t judge, just sees a problem and does what he can to solve it to the best of his ability, and right now, Dick’s condition is the problem.

“I’m not really hungry, Bruce. And I don’t want to use this.” What Dick doesn’t say is that he mostly doesn’t want the nightmares that generally follow, or the lack of emotional control, or that he just wants to be aware if something is happening with his arm, again. He much prefers dealing with the pain to the haze of the drugs.

“I know the side effects are not insignificant, but as long as you’re keeping food down, the priority right now is pain control. It will help you sleep, which will improve your healing.” 

“All that sounds good in theory but what if it doesn’t actually help me sleep?”

Bruce just gives him a look. “Good pain control will also reduce your risk of developing certain complications after surgery, such as pneumonia and blood clots. If you’re not moving enough, your risk goes up.”

“When have you ever known ‘not moving enough’ to be a problem for me?”

“Since you have over 45 centimeters worth of open incision.”

Dick huffs. “And traction.”

“As you are aware, the first night post surgery is often the roughest.”

“I’ll think about it. I don’t want it yet. I’m tired of feeling fuzzy.” Dick’s just tired, period. “And I’m tired of feeling queasy.”

“Your body needs fuel to heal, and you’ve barely had anything today. How does a strawberry shake with Ovaltine sound?”

Dick considers. His appetite is not only nonexistent, his stomach still protests any idea of food. But Bruce is right, even if Dick does hate that he feels like a kid again from the reminder. “I’ll try.”

“Back in five, then.”

Before Dick can protest, Bruce stands up and sweeps out of the room. But in less than five minutes, Bruce returns with a bottle of water and a pink milkshake with whipped cream, chocolate shavings, and a cherry on top. He sets them down on the bed tray, then looks at the button still in Dick’s hand with a single raised eyebrow.

Dick takes a long sip of the milkshake, returning Bruce’s gaze. “Fine.” He stifles the urge to roll his eyes as he holds up the button so Bruce can see him push it. “Anything else?” He doesn’t mean to be rude, but he hurts and he’s frustrated; if anyone will understand that, it’s Bruce.

“I found a backpack. Exactly where you said it would be.” Bruce doesn't go into detail, doesn't tell Dick he was right, but he does do him the courtesy of telling him what he's found. 

“It was sequined, had the initials CF.” Bruce doesn't mention Catherine Fletcher is one of the names on the list of kids who've gone missing. He doesn't need to.

“Any sign of her?” Dick hears himself ask. The drugs shroud his thoughts even as they dull the immediate aches in his body.

“No. You bought time for her to escape.” And it's as close as Bruce will get to telling Dick maybe he actually did well.

“Yeah.” Dick nods. Bruce is right. Maybe they don't know where she is, but there isn't a body there. There's every chance she's alive, somewhere.

He drinks perhaps half of the milkshake before he pushes it away. It's good, but… he’s sick to his stomach and can't fight off his worries and doubts. He hates morphine.

“How are you feeling now?”

Dick shrugs his unencumbered shoulder. “Sore but it’s manageable. Four out of ten. Bored.” Before pushing the button, it had been at least a six… not that he'll say that out loud to Bruce, but then Bruce probably already knows. 

“Get to sleep then.”

Dick sighs as Bruce leaves. “There's not much else to do,” he mutters under his breath. It's not entirely true, of course. There's plenty to do at the manor; it's that almost all of it is off limits to him in him now. He doesn't like being confined to bed, but he can usually handle it for a day or two. 

Mostly. 

The problem is that he can't really move, is pinned in place, essentially. He can't find a comfortable spot and just knowing that he can't even shift around is torture to him. Keeping his arm immobile from upper arm to wrist makes the muscles around his shoulder tense. He’s drowsy from the drugs, but he doesn’t want to give in; he can’t fight nightmares when he’s hazy.

He shifts as much as he is able, trying to find a comfortable spot, but he just can’t seem to find it. Maybe he can try meditating and let his mind wind down enough for sleep… Except he can’t seem to let go of his worries enough to drift into calmness. He’s distracted by the lingering pain and discomfort, despite the meds.

Sure, he could use the call button, ask Alfred for help, but he hates bothering him just because he’s bored and aching and thinking too much. Eventually, even his annoyance and discomfort aren’t enough to keep him awake, and he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

By the next morning, that manageable four out of ten has increased to a definite seven. His arm aches, inside and out. And it itches beneath the bandage. His shoulder is stiff and sore and spasming, and it's spreading to his back and neck and starting to throb in his temples. He's managed at least two more hours of sleep than he's used to, but he isn't rested, and yet there’s no way he can get back to sleep anytime soon, now. 

Thankfully, Alfred shows up within minutes, with pills, toast, a glass of juice, and a basket of what looks to be first aid supplies.

“Good morning, Master Dick. Did you sleep well?” He sounds sympathetic, as if he already knows exactly how he’s fared the previous night and morning. 

“Morning, Alf. About as expected.” Dick can't stretch, but he tenses and relaxes his body a few times as he rubs his eyes. It helps, but not quite enough to make him comfortable. Toast and juice. He hadn't been hungry at all the day before; he has a vague feeling he should probably eat now, but he still doesn’t really want anything, never does when he has to take pain meds. 

“I'll bring a proper meal, later, but you'll need something in your stomach for your medications. There's an anti-inflammatory and a muscle relaxant. We have to start your physical therapy this morning, and walk around for a short time, and then I'll clean the incision and make sure your arm is still in proper alignment.”

Dick manages half a piece of toast and several sips of juice but shakes his head when Alfred urges just a little more. He knows he should eat, but he also knows his body. He’s not in the mood to lose what little he’s managed to keep down, so he ignores everything but 'get up and walk around.’ Finally. He just needs to get out of bed for a while, and then he’ll feel better.

An hour later, he's clutching Alfred's arm as he eases him back onto the bed. Moving around had been… well, maybe he won't say it had been good, because his arm is throbbing with even the slightest movement, and his balance is off. Maybe it’s the muscle relaxant, maybe what’s left of the pain meds. But at least he's moving around and out of bed, even if he does want to throw up the toast, the juice, last night's shake, and whatever else he's eaten for the entire week prior.

So yeah, walking is painful, though not as bad as the stretches and carefully supervised movements of his PT. He's sure that will be better once the incisions are closed, once he has a proper cast, but now? He’s had GSW's that hurt less. Still, the stretches and throbbing ache of movement are far better than cleaning the wounds and changing the dressings. After a quick, curious glance, he turns away queasily. He has a strong stomach normally, but this looks more like the work of Zsasz than proper surgery, and his mind and stomach both want to rebel. Tim was not exaggerating one bit when he said the incisions went from his elbow to his palm. 

All in all, it's been a long morning, and it's not even 9am. He hurts, but at least he's not bored? He wriggles around in bed trying to get comfortable. He'll have a nap, and then maybe later, much much later, he’ll consider eating again. Maybe. 

Alfred lowers Dick’s arm from the IV pole they’d used to keep his arm elevated while walking and maneuvers it back into the configuration of metal and padding fastened against the bed frame. 

“How much longer?” He's slumps back into the mattress, exhausted and resigned. He has to be patient so he can go back to as normal as possible as soon as possible.

“Hopefully, if the swelling goes down, tomorrow or the day after.” Alfred is kind but firm. It is obvious this is difficult for Dick, but he helps no one if he skimps on proper medical procedure in the interest of making his charges more comfortable. “Perhaps you should nap until I bring up a proper meal?”

There's a rising inflection as if Alfred is offering a choice, but Dick can sense the gentle threat implied. He'll be eating, whether he wants to or not.

Dick smothers a sigh. “Perhaps I should.” He stares longingly at the strip of sky, noting the dark smudges off to the east. A storm's rolling in. Oh joy. He hears the door click shut, and he closes his eyes. 

Dick hates the rain.

And he needs to distract himself from that line of thinking and the associated memories.

Dick’s phone and the remote are within easy reach, but if he’s supposed to be sleeping, Alfred won’t be pleased if he hears the tv. He checks his phone but drops it after a moment. He has messages from friends, all wishing him a happy birthday, some offering get well wishes already, but his head is aching and he just isn’t in the mood for their light-hearted banter.

He’s saved from his thoughts by Damian entering and as much as Dick tries to hide his relief, he knows Damian notices how excited Dick is to have a visitor. He smirks. “Pennyworth sent me to ask if you’re up to receiving visitors.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t count?”

“Obviously I am the most superior you could ever hope to have, but I was speaking of visitors outside of the family.”

Dick tries to sit up a little straighter. “Of course I want to see them!”

“You don’t even know who I’m referring to.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m so bored already!” Dick exclaims melodramatically, just to annoy Damian.

“Tt. You’re a fool.”

“You love me.”

“Do not.”

Dick laughs. “So who are my mysterious visitors?”

“Harper and young Harper.” Damian frowns in evident disapproval.

“Why didn’t you say so? I can’t wait to see Roy and Lian.”

“Proving that once again, you have poor taste.”

“But what if I told you that you’re my favorite person?”

“I’d say even a broken clock gets the time right twice a day.”

“Ouch. Now please tell Alfred that I’m fine to see my friends.”

Damian rolls his eyes but nods and leaves. “See you later, oh favorite person of mine!” Dick calls after him.

Roy and Lian take longer to come up than he expected, but he’s so glad to have new people to talk to it’s possible time just seemed to stretch and slow. 

“Short pants!” Roy calls, and it’s the loudest thing Dick’s heard in two days. He loves it. “I wish I could say you’re looking good but you look like sh- -shampoo. Sorry it took so long but Alfred insisted we wash our hands twice before being allowed in the room.”

 

Lian nods. “It’s true. My teacher says to sing the ABC song twice, so that’s what I did, and I think Mr. Alfred liked that. He said he was going to consider making that the official rule. Do you think he’ll actually make Mr. Bruce do that?”

Dick laughs. “I think you definitely need to suggest that to Alfred, because I think it’s a fantastic idea. And if he does, I’ll video it and send it to you and your dad, okay?”

Roy snorts as he drops into the chair. “I’d pay you good money to see that.”

“I know.” Dick pats the bed next to his leg. “Come on up here, Dart. You can give me a cuddle.”

“Mr. Alfred told us that we must not jostle you. What does jostle mean?”

“Bump really hard. But I know you’ll be careful.”

Lian nods solemnly. “I understand. I can be careful.” She climbs up to sit where Dick indicated, taking her shoes off after a moment of consideration so she can curl her legs up on the bed. “Daddy says you were hurt and nobody thought it was bad but then it turned out that it was bad. He says you’re a lucky son of a buffalo.”

Dick represses the chuckle at Roy’s self-editing and gives the girl the full, serious attention she deserves. “Daddy was right. I was really lucky that Bruce and Alfred were smart and realized something was wrong really fast.”

“Daddy also says that it’s a miracle you didn’t try to hide it and pretend that everything was fine. He says he can’t believe you were sensible for once in your gosh darn life.”

Dick meets Roy’s eyes over Lian’s shoulder. Roy smirks and shrugs. “Did he really?” He’s not sure if he should be amused or offended, but Lian’s too cute and taking this way too seriously to risk her feelings. “Well, he’s right that if you think you’re sick or hurt or scared, you should tell an adult that you trust and they can help.”

“Were you scared?”

“Yes. Yes I was.”

“Well, I brought you a stuffy so if you’re scared and I’m not here, you can still have a friend.” She gestures to Roy who produces a small gift bag out of his backpack. He hands it to Lian who hands it to Dick. 

“This is a lovely bag. Did you pick it out?” It has a giant cartoon bee sniffing a flower, with the words “Bee Well Soon” in pink sparkly writing. 

“I did! And see, you just need to lift out the tissue paper, because I thought it would be hard to open a box.”

“You thought of everything.” Dick pulls the tissue paper out as instructed and deposits it on Lian’s head. When she wrinkles her nose, he says, “You don’t like the hat I gave you? I’m sad.” 

“Uncle Dick! That’s not a hat!” she giggles and Dick laughs along with her.

Then he pulls out the toy - a soft little bunny wearing a Robin costume. Dick makes a show of examining the tiny outfit and stroking the fur. “It’s perfect, Lian. Thank you.” 

“That is your present for getting hurt. But that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to get yourself hurt on purpose just to get another toy because Daddy was sad you’re out of commission.”

Roy turns a laugh into a cough. Dick glances up at him. “Daddy said that?”

Lian gives a very serious nod. “Yes. What does commission mean?”

“It means I can’t do my job.”

Lian leans towards Dick and says in the loudest whisper possible, “As Nightwing.”

“Yes. What else did Daddy say?” Dick looks at Roy again, just to make sure Roy can see him smirk.

“He says sometimes you’re a ding dong dumb dumb.”

Dick splutters a laugh, half horrified and half amused. “Your daddy says lots of things.”

“Well, you know, out of the mouths of babes and all that,” Roy grumbles harshly, but he has the grace to look a little embarrassed. 

“Anyway, short pants, here’s your actual birthday present.” Roy digs around in his backpack then hands Dick a small gift card.

Dick turns it so he can read the name. “Earbooks?”

“You know, that audiobook membership? Their tagline is ‘Hear books with Earbooks.”

“Thank you. I will be using this a lot, the next few weeks.”

“Yay!” Lian bounces a bit on the bed in her enthusiasm. She sees Dick wince. “Sorry, is that what Mr. Alfred meant by jostle?”

“Yes,” Dick grits out, trying to smile.

“Lian! I’m so sorry, Dick. Let me pick her up.”

Dick breaths through the pain then shakes his head. “No, no, I’m fine.” He opens his arm and pulls Lian gently into a hug. If she’s cuddled into his side, she’s less likely to bounce, and something about her warm, little body so solid against his grounds and reassures him. “So, tell me all about kindergarten.”

It’s easy to get lost in her chatter, to just listen to her tell about her day, about her teacher and friends and the class pet, Midnight - a rabbit like the one she’s brought him - and he lets himself drift just enough to overlook his discomfort. He laughs at her jokes and manages some conversation with Roy for just over an hour before the pain becomes too much to much for him to ignore. 

Roy knows there’s something wrong with him five minutes later, and it’s another five before Dick can be convinced to let Roy fetch Alfred. 

“Quit being a mother hen, Roy. The meds are just beginning to wear off. I’ll take something after you leave.” Dick is somewhat hampered by Lian’s presence. He can’t really explain in front of Lian - she doesn’t need to hear these problems, even if he could be convinced to tell Roy. He doesn’t want them to leave, though, and he worries they’ll decide they’ve overstayed their welcome, or Alfred will find a seemingly valid reason they should leave, or he’ll fall asleep once the painkillers kick in. 

And he doesn’t want to sleep again.

“You’re a stubborn a...pple pie, you know that, Dick?” Roy stresses his friend’s name just enough to communicate exactly what he can’t say in front of Lian. “I know you’re a bat and like to think you’re almost indestructible, but you’re not. I did some research. This stuff is serious. You’re lucky Bruce and Alfred know what they’re doing and recognized what was wrong and did something about it. This isn’t a contest; you don’t win if you’re stubborn enough to let yourself suffer needlessly. I know you’re used to ignoring, pushing through, but you can’t do that this time. You know you’d lecture Damian or Tim or any of the younger Titans if they were doing this. Cut yourself some slack for once, Robbie. Let your body heal. Be a good example for the kids...” 

“I’m fine...”

“Dont, Dick. Just... don’t.” Roy brushes his hand against Lian’s hair. “Keep an eye on Uncle Dick for a minute, will you, princess?” And then Roy’s out the door in search of Alfred.

Shit. Roy knows him too well.

“It’s okay, Uncle Dick. I’ll hold your hand when you take your medicine if you’re scared. Me and Robin Bunny...” Small hands pat Dick’s cheek and then she’s pulling the stuffed rabbit closer and tucking it next to him beneath the blanket. “Daddy always tells me how brave I am when I take my medicine, and I know you’re brave…” She frowns, trying to figure her way through the puzzling concept of her Uncle Dick not wanting to take his medicine. “Medicine makes you feel better, and Daddy said you don't like to take yours. It must taste really really, really bad…”

And then Roy is back, Alfred in tow, and he’s swinging Lian into the air to place her on his shoulders. “We’ll come back in a day or two, Bat-breath. Until then, rest up, okay?” He leans over and lets Lian kiss Dick on the cheek. “Thanks, Alfred. We’ll see ourselves out.”

“There are snacks in a box on a table in the front hallway, Master Harper. Miss Lian, especially, will want those. I’ve also taken the liberty of leaving an umbrella by the door, as the rain shows no signs of letting up.” 

Roy grins. “Thanks, Alfred.” If a batch of Alfred’s famous chocolate chip cookies isn’t in the box, he'll eat his old Speedy hat.

“Thanks, Mister Alfred!” Lian chimes in and blows a kiss, and then they’re gone.

Alfred whisks into place by Dick’s arm, snaps gloves on, and checks the bandages. “It’s looking a bit inflamed.”

“Infected?”

“No, not yet. Just a touch angry.”

Alfred gives Dick a thoughtful look. “I haven’t moved!” Dick protests. 

“I know you haven’t - that’s part of the reason we have the traction. Besides, I trust Master Harper to have reported any malfeasance on your part. He’s gotten much more sensible since Miss Lian came into his life.”

“She is good for him.”

“And he for her.” 

Alfred rewraps the ace bandages and hands Dick more pills, which he takes without protest. That wasn’t enough to pacify Alfred however. “Why didn’t you take anything when Master Harper and Miss Lian were here? I thought you were done denying yourself meds.”

“I didn’t want to sleep through their whole visit, and if I was going to hurt either way, I’d rather have some distractions around. I didn’t want them to leave.”

Alfred’s eyes soften. “I am not entirely without feeling, Master Dick. I do understand. Take heart - twenty four hours have passed, so, with luck and good care, we can attempt to close the wound in another twenty four.”

“Halfway there.” He smiles then bangs his head against his pillow. “Ugh. Only halfway there. I’m not sure I can handle any more.”

“How does another walkabout sound? Then I’ll send Tim or Damian up to play chess.”

“Scintillating.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow at Dick’s dry tone. 

“Sorry. Just that I really have to bring my A game to stand a chance against Tim or Dami, and I know that’s not going to happen today.”

“It is true that young Master Damian is not the most gracious of winners.”

Dick snorts at that. “That’s an understatement.”

“Right then. Shall we get you on your feet?”

Dick takes a deep breath to summon the energy to get up. He knows how uncomfortable this is going to be, but it’s better than staring at the downpour outside, listening to water hitting the windows. At least the activity will distract him from remembering a downpour in Bludhaven, a rain-soaked roof and a gunshot.


	4. Pining for The Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day or two in the life of a grounded bird.

Alfred helps Dick walk around the manor and it hurts at least as much as before, and yet it’s such a relief to get out of the bed, to move around. Wondering if enjoying it despite the pain makes him some sort of masochist probably isn't the best musing to share with friends and family, so Dick keeps his mouth shut during a thoroughly lackluster game of chess with Tim. The only time Dick seems to be making headway, he also makes the mistake of capturing a rook with a little too much enthusiasm, and can’t quite hide the wince.

“Grayson, what was that?” Damian asks.

“That was bishop to F5,” Dick says.

“I’m not referring to your at-best yeomanlike chess strategy. I am referring to that flinch.”

Dick grins. “If I flinched, which I don’t think I did, it’s only because I realized I’d left myself open to check.”

Tim’s eyes flick up from studying the board. “You did flinch, and you didn’t leave yourself open to check. Yet. So you’re in pain.”

“Shall I find Pennyworth?” Damian asks.

“Just push the button, Dick,” Tim says with a sigh.

“You’re afraid I’m going to win,” Dick says with a crooked smile.

“Please. Drake wins 62% of your games even without pharmaceutical influence. Your momentary advantage is just that - momentary.”

“Kicking me when I’m down, again, Damian,” Dick jokes, but pushes the damn button anyway. Damian had a point - morphine or not, twenty-four hours out of anesthesia, Dick isn’t likely to win.

Tim calls “checkmate” only five moves later.

Damian offers to read aloud from a book of Persian poetry, and if Dick is honest with himself, he occasionally lets some of the original language wash over him and doesn’t bother translating, just listens and appreciates the sound and cadence without searching for meaning. He can’t focus anymore. One snippet catches his attention, though, makes its way through the fog and stays with him as he fades into sleep. “I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being.”

The words by Hafez drag up something Alfred had told him back in darker days. Luminosity of spirit…

He doesn’t feel particularly luminous right now. Exhausted and frustrated, yes, but he's no beacon in the darkness for anyone.

But maybe that's it. He's tired. If he gets a good night’s sleep, it will all feel better the next day. Alfred has said he can probably close the incision tomorrow, and then he’ll be able to have a real cast. He won’t be able to fly yet, but he’ll be out of bed and able to move around without being in constant pain, and that's the closest he'll get.

It’s definitely something to look forward to…

~~~

_Dick is flying, moving through the air, twisting and turning and catching, being caught, grinning wildly on the trapeze. His shoulder aches, but it’s healing and he makes the decision. He’ll do the quad. He’s turning faster and faster and yet somehow he sees it. Flames._

_He grabs the bar and makes for the platform. No… Bruce is in one ring far beneath him, cowl being ripped from his face by a large hand. In another, there’s pale skin and laughter, and Babs reaching to open a door. He doesn’t want to look at the third, he already knows what it has to be…_

_It doesn’t matter. He hears the snap, hears the cries, hears the sick thud crack. No…_

_He can’t ignore the flames now, and he remembers, stares in horror, sees the tent in flames. Firefly. They have to get everyone out. No one else dies… He tries to pull someone out, hears someone calling his name._

“Dick. Wake up. Dick. I’m here…” Bruce pulls a chair close and shakes Dick’s good shoulder. “Come on, chum. I need you to wake up.”

“Wha...? Bruce?” Dick shakes his head, trying to fight off the last dregs of sleep and drugs. Oh. Nightmare. Damn. And Bruce is here, he has to have seen it, he…

And then Bruce is wrapping his arms around him, hugging him. He takes a breath. Another. He can feel Bruce’s chest rising and falling against his and he matches it. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Fuck. His arm hurts, his shoulder aches, and the sheets are tangled around his legs, his body twisted off to the side.

He hadn’t meant to move. Alfred won’t be happy… He chokes on his breath again.

Bruce won’t let him panic. He whispers against his temple, pats his back, waits until Dick relaxes against him.

“Sorry, Bruce.” Dick looks over at the clock. It’s 4am. “Crap, did I wake you?” Bad enough to be hurting, waking to a nightmare, but he doesn’t want to bother anyone else.

“No. I was heading out, actually. Are you alright?” Bruce watches Dick, taking in everything.

“Out? But aren’t you going to sleep? I’m fine. It’s… it's just these stupid drugs. I hate them.” Okay, he’s been having nightmares even before, but… he’s fine.

Bruce gives him a look that clearly says pull the other one. “How long have you been having these nightmares?”

Dick looks him in the eye and lies, “Just since the arm.”

“Hrrrrnnn.”

Dick decides to change the subject, though he knows Bruce has filed this whole conversation away already. “Help me back into place?”

“Of course.” Bruce gently rearranges Dick like he is still as tiny as the eight year old who’d first moved into the Manor, then brushes the hair out of Dick’s face. “Better?”

“Better.”

“Do you think you can sleep again?”

Dick nods.

“I have to go, but I’ll try to be back before breakfast. Should I get Alfred or one of your brothers?”

“No, I’m good now. Fine. Sorry if I made you late.”

“Stop apologizing. I had time. Now rest. I’ll be back.”

It takes some time, but eventually, Dick sleeps again. When he wakes, Bruce is there, working on his laptop as if he’d never left.

“So, what was the big emergency, this morning? Save the world again with no one any wiser that they were even in danger?” There is no real bite to the words, but he is cranky and taking out some of his frustrations on an easy target he knows can take it and will understand.

“Well, some aliens made contact with Earth, but refused to talk to Diana or Clark. Only I would do.”

Dick chuckles. “Because you’re so known for diplomacy.”

Bruce takes a seat in the chair next to Dick’s bed so Dick doesn’t have to strain to look at his face. “Absolutely.” Bruce is completely dead pan.

“So why will they only talk to you?”

“Because they’re worried about an endangered species here on Earth.” Bruce pauses, still totally serious.

“What?” Dick demands when it becomes clear Bruce won’t say anything more without prompting.

“Mosquitoes.”

It takes a moment, which Dick blames on his exhaustion and drugged state, but then he starts laughing. “Oh my god, that’s the plot of _Lilo and Stitch_.”

Bruce allows one side of his mouth to tilt into a small smile, eyes crinkling with mirth. “Got you.”

Dick relaxes further into the bed, still wheezing with laughter. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the goddamn Batman. What else do you expect?”

“You know, nobody believes me when I try to tell them that you have a sense of humor. Wally still pees a little when you glare at him.”

“Good.”

Bruce ruffles Dick’s hair, kisses his forehead, and for one brief moment, everything is as it should be.

But then Bruce continues.

“Dick… You’re an adult and I can’t really force you into taking anything, but as someone who cares about you, I’d ask you to consider something for the nausea. It's obvious it’s still bothering you. You don’t need to suffer through this and you don’t really have the weight to spare.” He’s Bruce, and he doesn’t beg. He makes it all sound entirely reasonable.

“Do as I say and not as I do, right?” Dick sighs. Bruce is definitely making a case for the meds even though Dick doesn’t want them. He hates the morphine, but he hates anti-emetics plus morphine even more. If morphine makes everything a haze, then taking something to help with the nausea turns everything into pea-soup fog, with him hidden somewhere in the middle, searching for a way out.

Maybe Dick’s meds are supposed to help him, but he thinks toughing it out through the pain is better. He far prefers feeling something, even if it hurts, to being trapped inside his head, fuzzy and dizzy and… and he's sure this somehow qualifies as extreme duress - psychological torture, even. He's setting a bad example for Tim and Damian, but they can’t see him now, right? Even if it's wrong, he just can't handle not moving as well as not thinking.

But Bruce is right. Again.

 _Damnit_.

“I hate when you make so much sense. Fine, but only if Alfred lowers the dose of painkillers. And you’re sorely mistaken if you think I’ll forget this next time you’re injured.” He smiles crookedly. He's not really upset with Bruce, but he hurts, and he's emotionally off, with no good outlet for his energy or his mounting frustration. If only he could get a decent night’s sleep.

Dick sighs. He is definitely exhausted if he’s giving in so easily.

Alfred brings Dick’s breakfast soon after. Dick does eat, some. At least, he tries to. But eventually, he knows he can’t keep any more down. He’s restless and out of sorts and doesn’t see Alfred’s concerned expression as he takes the greater part of the breakfast away, after.

He grabs his phone from the nightstand. It’s blinking, but he sighs and clears his notifications, unread. He’s just not in the mood, now; he’ll get to them this afternoon, or sometime. Maybe he should read… or listen to a book. He downloads the Earbooks app and follows the directions to set up an account with the code from Roy’s gift card. When he opens the app, there are already several books in his library.

Roy knows him too well. There are a handful of adaptations of the Robin Hood story, a mystery that looks like it will hold his attention past the second chapter of the book, two nature books… and he has to laugh at the titles, because one is about birds and the other has a section on bats, and yet clearly they’ve been chosen with more than the joke of the titles in mind, and… oh. Roy must have asked Alfred’s advice for the rest of the titles.

He blinks back tears and blames it on his meds. _The Princess Bride_ has always been a childhood favorite, and _The Dark Crystal, The Neverending Story, The Hobbit_ ; some books remain friends throughout a person’s life, and those definitely fit the bill. It isn’t all that surprising that Roy has those for him, but _The Little Prince_? and in the original French...

His mother had been reading it to him, and he just couldn’t finish it… after. He’s wanted to, many times since then, but he’s just never gotten around to it.

He knows he’s never told Roy, or any of the other Titans. Only Bruce and Alfred know.

It’s tempting, but he doesn’t think he’s quite up to listening yet. Maybe later, after the surgery, when he’s just past the worst of the fuzziness, but still somewhat removed from everything. For now…

> _The year that Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette…_

****

After a couple of hours of listening to Rob Reiner’s excellent narration - and that was a fun surprise - Tim interrupts Dick with a snack. It’s time for a protein shake - no solids because of the surgery later today - and Dick is feeling rational enough to research compartment syndrome and fasciotomies.

The basic medical websites for consumers and patients don’t tell Dick much more than what he already knows, but he gets a rude awakening when he switches over to the articles meant for doctors. It’s one thing to know in theory that he is - was - at risk for amputation, but realizing that undiagnosed compartment syndrome can potentially lead to death from kidney failure is information he’s not sure he really wants to know. At least they caught it in time. But reading about the percentage of patients that still have complications even after prompt diagnosis and treatment really starts to worry Dick.

Permanent nerve damage. Permanent loss of viable muscle tissue.

With those phrases ringing in his head, he comes across an article about the student athlete who voluntarily chose amputation after living with a badly affected limb for years, deciding that cutting it off would be better than continuing to live in pain and with less function.

Dick closes that window and furiously reads an article about the successful physical therapy of an Army Ranger who deployed scant months after fasciotomies in both legs.

Dick tries to remember exactly how long it had been between when he’d gone to sleep and when he’d woken up in pain. How long had the compartments of his arm been under such intense pressure before he’d realized something was wrong? It was just after midnight when Tim had gone to bed, and Dick had woken up not much past 8. But when had the symptoms started? Dick just didn’t know. Five hours or less, and he’d probably be fine. Six hours or more, and the odds were stacked against a complete recovery.

Dick slips into a restless doze only interrupted by Alfred waking him to transfer to a wheelchair. It’s been about 48 hours since Dick’s first surgery, and it’s time to go in and close the wounds.

Or rather, Alfred said “attempt to close the wounds” but Dick chooses not to listen to that part. He’s beaten the odds before.

He will beat them again.


	5. Put it in your heart where tomorrow shines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick has his second surgery. Will it fix his problems or give him a whole new set to worry about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More medical talk in this chapter, including discussions of potential complications.

Predawn of the third day - after the family has returned from patrol, before Leslie has to open the clinic - has the soft promise of dawn as a warm glow Dick sees through his open drapes. He’d slept fitfully, dreams surging in and then draining away as quickly as they’d come, like waves against the shore. He’s already awake when Alfred comes to get him for surgery, feeling caught between two realities. 

Leslie has come to do the surgery, with an assist from Alfred. She un-bandages Dick’s arm, and he watches her face instead of looking at his injury. Hidden quickly behind her professional demeanor, she blanches when the upper incision is revealed. 

“That bad, huh?” he asks.

Gloved fingers gently turn his arm over and prod at the edges. “No, not at all. Alfred did a lovely job.”

“Then why did you grimace?”

“I can already tell we’re going to need more debridement. I need to manage your expectations; I don’t think I’ll be able to close it completely today.”

“But you’ll try?”

Her glasses glint as she raises her head to meet Dick’s eyes. “I’ll try. I’ll do my best to preserve as much tissue as possible and to close the incision. If there’s still too much swelling, I won’t be able to close it. Skin only has so much elasticity, and if I did close it prematurely, we risk the compartment syndrome coming back. Which would almost certainly threaten your arm."

Dick has to agree that he doesn't want to risk that, but he can't imagine continuing on much longer in this weird stasis, unable to use his hand at all, unable to get out of bed.

"Just try, please."

"I'll do what I need to do in order to give you the best possible outcome."

It's not the full reassurance that Dick was hoping for, but he supposes he'll have to take it. He nods.

"Chin up, Master Dick," Alfred says as he joins Leslie by Dick's bed, adorned in surgical scrubs and holding his gloved hands in the air. "With Dr. Thompson here, at the minimum, we'll be able to install fixation for the fracture."

"Thanks."

"Ready?" Alfred picks up the gas mask.

"As I'll ever be," Dick says as he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, choosing to believe with everything he has that he’s on the road to recovery.

 

***

 

Dick slowly swims up from the depths of anesthesia, feeling consciousness return piece by piece. He’s in no pain at all, aside from a bit of a sore throat from the breathing tube. And an odd sensation in his left - his good - hand. Something like pressure. Someone says his name softly. He forces his eyes open to see Bruce in the chair by the bed. Bruce, holding his hand of all things. 

“B?” Dick feels himself frowning as he tries to figure out what is wrong. Bruce wouldn’t be acting like this unless he was about to give bad news. Dick realizes he can’t feel his right arm at all, not even pain or itching. He tears his eyes from Bruce’s face, turning his head around and down. The relief when he sees he still has an arm, albeit very heavily bandaged, even more tubes emerging from the dressings than he’d seen before, is so great he almost wants to puke. And at least the apparatus they had been using to provide traction is gone. Dick’s arm is on a foam riser, positioned to keep the limb at about heart level. 

Bruce clears his throat, bringing Dick back to look at him. He nods as if he knows exactly what Dick was thinking. He probably does. “It’s still there.”

Dick swallows against rising nausea, tries to talk, managing to make only a quiet rasp. Bruce lets go of Dick’s hand to grab a cup with a straw and hold it for Dick to drink. When Dick speaks again, he’s able to get the words out. “Is everything okay? Why can’t I feel it?”

“Nerve block.” 

“Then what’s the bad news?”

“Who says there’s any bad news?”

Dick glares at Bruce. “Your behavior. So just get it over with and tell me.”

Bruce closes his eyes tight for a moment, then opens them, meeting Dick’s gaze properly for the first time. “We weren’t able to close the incision. Alfred and Leslie performed more debridement and removed some dead tissue, but the pressure readings inside the compartments of your forearm are still too high. They also saw some signs of infection, so he took a culture of the bacteria. As soon as we get the results back, you’ll be put on a course of antibiotics tailored specifically for that.”

Dick struggles to process this information. “Okay. So that’s not too bad, right? You just need to try again in a few days, or a week, once the infection is gone, and then we can close it and I can start recovering for real?”

Bruce’s face tells Dick the answer before he says a word. “I’m afraid that surgical closure via sutures is no longer an option. We’ll know more in a few days, but at this point, the next step is probably wound vac or a skin graft. There are a couple of other options, but the most appropriate next step will be determined by a number of factors, including -”

Dick cuts him off. “So. When can I start PT? When can I get a cast? When can I get out of this fucking bed?”

“Dick. I’m afraid I just don’t know the exact answers yet. But realistically, we’re looking at months of recovery, not days or even weeks.”

Dick blinks, processing the words. “Months?”

There is a silence broken only by the sound of medical equipment for perhaps the space of ten heartbeats.

“I didn't do anything wrong this time, Bruce. I listened to Alfred, did everything he said, didn't do a single fucking thing he said not to! And now you tell me this?” Dick wants to break something, or even better, fly, run, swim, train, anything to exhaust himself, make it so he can't think.

And he can't.

He's tied to a bed for an injury that should be so insignificant he'd forget about it a month later, unless there is a specific reason to recall it. He'd listened, damn it. He'd really tried. And for what?

“Dick. It's not like that and you know it. Sometimes injuries just don't respond the way we want them to...”

“Stop! I don't want to hear it! Months? Do you know what ‘months’ will do to my fitness level?” Even a week off training is a bitch to come back from, he already knows that. He's been training since before he knew what training was, back in the circus. He'll lose muscle mass, flexibility. And that's just physical side effects. He can't afford months.

Dick takes a deliberate breath, then another, forcing his chest to expand and deflate slowly. He needs to get a grip, no pun intended. "Ok. So. Skin graft? What's the recovery time on that?" He's familiar with skin grafting in a general sense, though he's never had to have it done.

Bruce nods as if approving of Dick's efforts to calm himself. When he speaks, his tone is cool and impartial, as if discussing the performance of a stock that he has no particular interest in. "The donor site will take up to two weeks to heal, and we would probably use your thigh. The graft site can take several months to get full feeling back, and you would need extensive physical therapy to make sure that scar tissue doesn't limit your movement."

"Months," Dick echoes quietly. "What about the other thing you said?"

"Vacuum-assisted closure."

Dick frowns, imagining a Dyson next to his arm. "I have no idea what that is."

"A small, portable pump would be connected to a special dressing on your arm with a tube. It decreases air pressure on the wound. This can help the wound heal more quickly. You'd have to have the pump with you at all times until you're healed."

"How big is it?"

"Smaller than a box of tissues."

"How long for that?"

"About six to eight weeks for the wound to heal, then you can start intensive PT."

"So we're talking months, with either choice. Find a better way, Bruce. There's got to be something else…”

It doesn't take the audio-visual cues of Dick's vital signs to tell Bruce that Dick's upset. His son's eyes are darting back and forth, not settling on any one thing, and his free hand is clenched, nails no doubt digging into his palm. He doesn't have to be a detective to know Dick feels like a trapped animal, one step away from lashing out at those who would help him. He can't let him get to the stage where he's willing to gnaw off a limb to escape a trap. He frowns at the aptness of the metaphor.

Bruce eases Dick's clenched hand open. “I'll find something.” His heart aches at the sight of those tense muscles. “I'll find something, Dick.”

***

Dick clings to Bruce’s promise as he tries to put on a happy face for a parade of visitors over the next two days. Surprisingly, Jason is one of the first to visit. 

Jason scans the lists of audiobooks Roy had already downloaded, muttering “Good, good, interesting choice, utter crap but you’ll like it, and The Little Prince? Roy picked that out for you, really?”

Dick shrugs with one shoulder. He still can’t feel or even move his right arm. “He must have asked Alfred.”

“Huh.” Jason studies Dick as if he’s about to ask more questions, then drops his gaze back to Dick’s tablet. “It’s good. Let me find you a few more.”

Jason taps away at Dick’s tablet for a few minutes without making any more conversation, Dick dying to ask what he’s downloading but afraid of scaring Jason away if he feels interrogated. He bites his lip to keep himself quiet.

Finally, Jason hands the tablet back to Dick. “Can I get you anything? Bottle of water?”

“Thanks, but I’m good.”

Jason shoves his hands in his pockets, glances out the window. “Alfred told me. I’m sorry, man. It sucks. I’m not going to lie.”

“Wait, what?” Why was Jason acting like Dick’s arm was practically a lost cause?

Jason ignores Dick’s question. “Try not to worry. They’ll figure something out. They usually do. And if they don’t, I can teach you how to shoot a gun.”

“I already can shoot a gun. But what do mean, if they don’t figure something out? What exactly did Alfred say?”

“You know, forget I said anything. You don’t need to worry.”

“I wasn’t worried, but now I am,” Dick protests, but Jason is already walking out the bedroom door. 

 

***

Tim comes in shortly after, just to talk, a smile plastered on his face, but doesn’t stay long. The next day, he comes back, carrying a box of electronic equipment. He places a set of speakers on Dick’s bedside tables, and fastens a mount to the bed railing. “Bruce bought it all, but he let me help him pick it out and set everything up.”

He pulls a large tablet from the box, as well. It’s definitely not something Dick can hold in one hand easily like the one he has now.

Dick can only stare as Tim fusses and fiddles and begins showing him how to navigate through… voice activated menus. He’s clearly excited, and apparently proud of what he’s put together. It’s probably a wonderful setup, but Dick can’t deal with it, now. It’s too much. Overwhelming. And implying a far longer recuperation than he is willing to accept. 

That and Tim’s cheerfulness and seeming determination to distract him are setting his teeth on edge. None of this is Tim’s fault; he can’t take it out on him. He still needs some outlet for his emotions, though. Obviously, going for a run is out of the question, same for a session on the rings. There is a tiny voice far in the back of his head telling him that might never be an option again, and it immediately makes everything worse.

He chokes down as much of the suffocating anger as he can, just for the moment, and manages to only sound tired and in pain when he asks Tim to send Bruce to him.

Dick seethes and frets and doesn’t even bother with calming breathing exercises once Tim is safely out of the room. He can hear on the monitors just what effect his frustration is having, but he doesn’t care; if anything, it makes things worse. 

Dick confronts Bruce the second he walks through the door. 

“What the fuck, Bruce? You said you’d try everything. Tim is forcing a cheerful smile and bringing me assistive technology for a fucking tablet. Jason is telling me he’s sorry and offering to teach me to shoot. Roy wouldn’t even let Lian sit on the bed with me, today, as if he's afraid she'll break me or something. What the fuck is going on?! You promised you’d help!”

And then Dick is gulping harshly for air as his vision tunnels and Bruce kneels beside him, pushing his hair back from his face. Monitors blare a warning in the background. 

Dick scowls through it all, and when he can finally see properly again, he takes a good look at Bruce. 

His face is stubbled, bags beneath his eyes. He looks like shit. And that’s saying something,  
considering everything Dick has seen him go through over the years. Bruce can’t have eaten or taken even a moment for himself in who knows how long.

The anger drains and he slumps back against the bed. 

“I’m sorry, Dick. I’ve been searching, reading, calling specialists all over the world. I’m still pursuing a few leads, but… most of them are too much risk for too little benefit.” This from a man who regularly goes up against metahumans and supervillains while dressed as a bat. Bruce lets out a soft breath. “We’re running out of time for some of the options, and no matter how much research I do, everything agrees that early intervention is our best option.”

Bruce is quiet for a moment before adding, “But at some point, we’re going to have to make decisions with what information we have.” 

“Bruce… I…” Dick can only look pleadingly at the man who’s gone through so much with him over the years. 

“I know, Dick. I know. Just…” Bruce can’t let Dick down. He won’t. He kisses Dick’s forehead, and it’s a promise. “Just hang on. I’ll find something.” He has to…

***

After Bruce leaves, Dick uses the new tablet to do research. He has to admit that the mount on the side of the bed makes it easier to use one-handed, and the speech-to-text helps too. He’s grateful that these aids exist - just not reconciled to the possibility of needing them for months. Dick is fairly ambidextrous, like all of them, thanks to Bruce’s training, but ambidextrous or not, there are things that are just easier with his dominant hand. Being able to throw a Batarang accurately with either hand doesn’t quite make up for not being able to use his favored side. He still prefers using his right hand to sign his name, hold his toothbrush, use scissors, or flip off Jason or Roy. (Or Bruce, but only behind his back, and only when he really deserves it. Which is at least half the time.)

The thing is, though, that Dick’s research isn’t reassuring in the least. Bruce’s time frames weren’t exaggerated. If anything, Bruce had low-balled recovery slightly. That didn’t take into account the fairly high incidence of complications, like a skin graft failing to take, or that infections sometimes take weeks to clear up in wounds this size. And he’s taking antibiotics for an infection, so he’s already had a complication. There’s no guarantee at all the rest of his recovery will go smoothly. 

After reading a case study about someone who had to be hospitalized for 45 days after his fasciotomies and then had six more weeks of at home treatment, Dick decides he can’t take any more research for now. It’s too depressing. Dick’s supposed to be the optimist of the family, and he was sure optimistic that this second surgery would be successful and he’d be ready to move on to the next stage of healing. Clearly, his hope has been misplaced, and now he needs to face reality.

Reality is just awfully unattractive right now, though. 

 

***

“Yeah, I can still see some of the pudding in your hair, I think. You missed a spot.”

Dick is actually starting to relax a bit. He can’t help it, with Wally there. He’s really glad to see him.

“Oh man. I went to the grocery like this.” Wally sighs and rubs at a sticky spot on his forehead, at his hairline. Finally he’s satisfied he’s as de-stickified as he can manage without a shower.

Dick grins. “I can tell the twins are keeping you busy, but you look good. Happy.” And happy is definitely what his friends deserve. Dick’s glad Wally’s adjusting to part-time heroing so well; he’s even more ecstatic that Wally is getting to spend so much time with his kids. Family is important. 

“I am, Dick. But… this busy can be good. They’re in a tiny tots soccer league and… it really is good. You should see them run around on the field. They’re naturals.” Wally doesn’t specify if it’s at the running or the actual soccer.

“That’s really great. Bring them by in a few weeks and I’ll work on some tumbling with them again. I know Irey was looking forward to it. I can guide them through the moves even if I won’t be able to do them myself yet, and they’ll burn some energy off, which I’m sure you and Linda will enjoy.” Dick finds he’s looking forward to it; even if he won’t be doing backflips, himself. He’s always liked working with kids, and Wally’s twins are no exception. He loves hearing them giggle and squeal in delight as they learn to defy gravity, if just for a moment.

“Thanks, man. We appreciate the offer. What about you, though? I haven’t gotten to see you as much, lately. Does the Bossman even give you time to come up for air?” And it’s a sign of how at ease Wally is that it’s more teasing than taunting.

“Free time is all I have for now, Wally. And only the most minimal of PT.” Maybe Dick’s not exactly normal for wanting to rush into movement so soon after broken bones and surgery, but… okay. He isn’t normal. He can’t argue that. 

“That’s rough, buddy…” And then Wally is laughing.

Dick flips him off, but it’s all good-natured fun. “Thanks, Zuko…”

They both look up as the door opens a scant second after a knock. Neither is surprised when Bruce walks in. Bruce flicks his eyes to Wally, acknowledging his presence. “West. I need to speak with my son.”

Dick makes a “hold” gesture with his hand. “Wally can stay.”

Bruce knits his brows, ready to protest, but then visibly decides to just ignore him instead. “Dick. I have news.”

Dick sits a little straighter. “Tell me.”

“I think I may have found something.”


	6. And When I Swim, I Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick has a decision to make and Wally helps. Donna and Dick are the brotp we all need and deserve. Garth thinks he's broken Dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by typos. Two accidental typos led to dialogue we decided to keep. (also, remember how we said this doesn't strictly follow canon? It still doesn't :P)

Bruce dives right into his explanation. “There are a few variations, but the incision would be closed gradually, either through elastic sutures or sutures that can be tightened gradually until wound closure is achieved. There is still some risk of complication, but there is that risk with every other procedure, as well.” 

He pauses for just a moment. “The biggest risk is that the pressure and swelling won't subside, or they'll return. This procedure requires heavy monitoring of the wounds and internal pressure, as well as daily tightening of the laces that pull the wounds closed. The plus side is that wound closure can be achieved in under a week.” Bruce holds up his hand before Dick can interrupt.

“The pressure readings inside your arm are still high and you've required multiple debridements. There's your infection to consider as well. My concern is that we don't know just when the internal pressure in your arm reached critical levels, if it was four hours, or closer to six. With the history of complications you're already experiencing, amputation could still be a very real threat with traditional wound closure techniques, even if we could get the skin to stretch enough to close. But there's something else we could do. These elastic closure techniques aren’t exactly new anymore, but there is another procedure we can use in conjunction with it. The combination is very new. And you probably won't like it…”

Dick jumps in immediately. “Tell me, Bruce. Let me decide before you try to talk me out of it. If there's a chance that will increase my chances and lessen recovery time, I want to hear it.”

“Strict elevation.” Bruce waits to see if Dick understands the term, and the implications. At the relatively calm look on Dick's face, he continues. “Near-constant elevation of the affected limb for 3-5 days. Scant minutes spent out of elevation can undo hours of the elevation therapy, so you wouldn’t be able to lower it. Combined with the lacing, it should lessen the swelling significantly, and help your wound close more quickly and prevent further complications.”

Bruce stops again to let everything sink in.

“Okay . . .” Dick looks at Wally as if to gauge his reaction, but Wally’s expression is carefully neutral. “So - back to the traction thing I had before?”

“No, actually, so that’s one bit of good news. You’ll have to keep it significantly elevated the majority of the time, but not completely immobile like before. Leslie and Alfred were able to stabilize the fracture. Just a few minutes of lowering your arm could undo hours of elevation, so you’d still be on almost complete bedrest. If we close the incision and the edema isn’t fully managed, we risk further tissue breakdown or the compartment syndrome returning.”

“No traction - that doesn’t sound so bad,” Wally offers.

“But I still wouldn’t really be able to get out of bed for another week.”

“Three to five days,” Bruce corrects.

Dick raised a peevish eyebrow at him. “Thanks. So much.”

“It’s not ideal, I admit,” Bruce says, “but overall has less risk of complications than either the wound vac or the skin graft. While with those two you would be able to get up and move sooner, the overall recovery time is longer and riskier.”

“But this isn’t risk free, is it?” Dick asks.

“Nothing is, Dick, you’ve got to realize that. You have twenty inches of open incisions in your arm.”

“Trust me, I know. Not exactly something you forget, and I’ve been living with it.”

“Just trying to help.” Wally raises both hands in an “I surrender” pose.

“Perhaps keep your interjections to yourself then,” Bruce says, “if you really want to be helpful. Or better yet, let me talk to my son in peace.”

“No,” Dick snaps. “Wally stays.”

“Yeah! I stay!”

Dick shoots him a glare. 

“Um, I mean, if anyone is kicking me out, it’s gonna be Dick. It’s his room.”

Dick snorts, half-amused, half still irritated.

Bruce clears his throat. “I’ve emailed you some information, including some meta analysis. You don’t have to decide immediately, but the sooner the better.”

Dick hates all of this; he’s trapped, physically and mentally, stuck in bed, hurting. He's not at his best and has to make an important decision, and make it quickly, on top of it all.

Bruce means well. Wally means well, too. He's appreciative that they're both here, and trying to help… and yet he wants to lash out at them as easy targets. The worst part is, they'd understand. And let him. Dick doesn't deserve them. 

Finally, the silence drags on just a shade too long to be comfortable, or normal. He can't take the extra scrutiny right now, so he deflects, makes a joke of it, instead. He just can't sit and wait anymore. 

"Bruce. You wouldn't have come to me with this if you didn't already research it and think it was a good idea. Everything else has a potential for poor outcome and long healing time. And it makes sense to combine the elevation to manage the risk of the pressure increasing again. I trust you, and your judgment. Unless either of you can come up with a good reason I shouldn't try this, then let's do it. I'm pretty sure sitting here for four hours reading excruciatingly boring medical abstracts and worrying for another two hours over the decision won’t change anything. Call Leslie or Alfred or whoever and let's schedule this."

Bruce makes a noise of assent and leaves.

Wally looks from Dick to Bruce’s retreating back, not quite sure how it’s all happened so quickly, at least for someone who isn’t a speedster. He’s not sure he wouldn’t pick the same choice, but he thinks he would have taken longer to decide, even with super-speed. 

“Uhhh… Dick? I know it’s your life and all, but… it just seems like a big decision to make so quickly.” Wally isn’t even sure if he should say something, even with Bruce gone. He trusts Dick, but, this isn’t a mission. This is for Dick, and he has at least a little time to decide, so why isn’t he using it?

Dick huffs and makes as if to cross his arms, though only the left one actually moves. So he’s aware that he looks defensive and childish, but he can’t bring himself to care. “I’ve spent hours reading about skin grafts and wound vacs, and I already know that I’m not a huge fan of either solution. So if Bruce has found something that lets me avoid both of those, why wouldn’t I jump on it?”

“If it’s so great, why didn’t he suggest it earlier?”

Dick rolls his eyes. “He’s not actually a doctor.”

“Exactly.”

“Your point?”

“Then why didn’t Leslie or Alfred suggest it?”

“Because they didn’t know about it. Are you trying to get me to admit that they don’t know what they’re doing?”

“No! I’m not. I’m just trying to get you think critically.” 

“Damn it, Wally, I’ve done nothing but think about this. None of them are orthopedic surgeons, but from what I’ve read about compartment syndrome, they’ve saved my arm, and I trust them.”

“Right. We’re all in your corner, Rob. So maybe this technique isn’t very common and that’s why they didn’t know about - they’re not specialists. Wouldn’t it make sense to talk to someone who is?”

Damn it, Wally’s logic makes sense. “Did you have anyone in mind?”

“What about Dr Mid-Nite? Or call someone at Star Labs? If they don’t know the answer, they could at least recommend someone for you to talk to.”

“Well, yeah… but…” Dick frowns. He wants this done now. He’s done nothing but think. He can’t bear the idea of waiting for the wound vac or skin graft, and there are enough issues that can crop up that he worries about his ability to continue as a hero. Closing the wound quickly plus having a mechanism for avoiding a return of the compartment syndrome just sounds so tempting…

Shit.

Wally’s right.

“Damnit, Wally…” 

Wally waves a hand in front of Dick’s face. “Still with me?”

Dick focuses back on his friend’s face. Wally looks genuinely concerned. “Yeah, I was just thinking . . .”

“Uh oh. Why am I not going to like this?”

Dick can’t help but cackle, just a little. “You know me too well.”

“This is going to mean more work for me, isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

Wally heaves a massive - and exaggerated - sigh. “I knew it,” he groans, but he’s smiling.

“I’m exhausted, and impatient, and my arm feels like ants are crawling on it, biting, but the bites don’t know if they should itch or if they should sting. So I’m a bit . . .”

“Grumpy.”

“I was going to say distracted.” Dick glares at Wally. “So how about we compromise? You read the info Bruce just emailed me, using your super speed, and some of the things I’ve already read about my other options. Then you can tell me your opinion.”

“Dick!” Wally splutters. “I’m not a doctor.”

“I’m not either. And what? It’ll take you twenty minutes? I’ll nap and you read.”

“How is this a compromise?”

“Because otherwise I would just let Bruce do the thing. And I’m really tired. You don’t want me to exhaust myself, do you?” Dick knows he’s going for the low blow here, given that Wally has devoted a huge percentage of his time and attention as Kid Flash, Flash and plain old Wally West to making sure Dick doesn’t take on too much, push too hard. But he’s not in the mood to pull his punches. 

Wally snags Dick’s laptop. “I don’t like this, Dick, but I’ll do it.”

“You’re the best, KF,” Dick singsongs. 

***

***

Watchtower Surgical Facilities patient file (excerpt):

Richard (Dick) Grayson, alias Nightwing, team affiliations: Bat and Titans. Patient is a 27-year-old non-meta earth-human male who sustained a right radius-ulna fracture March 21, 2019. He underwent right upper extremity fasciotomies and tissue debridement. On March 24, he underwent further debridement and reduction/nailing of the radius and ulna fractures. Intra-compartmental pressure, ischemia and edema remained too high to allow complete wound closure. He developed a wound infection and is currently receiving intravenous antibiotics 

Patient admitted at 0600 on March 27 to undergo placement of a dynamic dermatotraction device, DermFuse(™) copyright Star Labs, further debridement if clinically indicated, under twilight sedation. Treating surgeon: Pieter Cross, M.D., alias: Doctor Mid-Nite. 

Patient’s family is unavailable due to emergency in Gotham. Donna Troy, alias Troia, former team affiliation, Titans, and Garth of Shayeris, alias Tempest, former team affiliation Titans, will be available onsite, Wally West, alias Flash, and Roy Harper, alias Red Arrow as alternate points of contact. 

***

 

He’s still singsonging two days later, though he’s making significantly less sense. No sense, whatsoever, to be honest.

His arm is still swathed in bandages, wrapped tightly in layers of elastic, but the wounds are closed. Partially. The arm is also supported on a large foam block and suspended from an overhead bar. Donna is by his good side, not actually touching him but reassuringly close.

“Why can’t I feel anything?” Dick asks, but then that seems hilarious to him for no apparent reason, so he chuckles.

“Dr. Mid-Nite used a nerve block, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. Does my arm look like a shoe?” he asks Donna.

“I’m not following, I’m afraid.”

“Cuz it’s the shoelace technique. Wally picked it.”

“Oh. Of course! I haven’t actually seen it, but Dr. Mid-Nite said the surgery went fine.”

“Good. But I had an idea!”

“Tell me.”

“I want a store called ‘I Feel Like Tacos’ and then you can say ‘I feel like tacos, so let’s go to ‘I Feel Like Tacos.’”

Donna smiles in encouragement. “So it sells tacos?”

“No, it sells taco costumes.” Dick has to pause to giggle. “So you can dress up like a taco, and then you really feel like a taco.” Dick is laughing so hard at this point that he covers his face with his good hand to recover.

“Alright there, big guy. Frankly, you shouldn’t even be awake yet, so just try to relax and maybe take a nap?”

“I want to dance.”

“Absolutely not,” Donna snaps, but she sounds too amused to be really mad. “No dancing. No moving. No sitting up.”

“You’re no fun.”

“You can sing,” she offers. 

“Taco taco man, I want to be a taco man,” Dick sings softly to himself.

“It’s macho man.”

“What? No. That doesn’t make any sense. Why would it be macho when it’s a taco store? It should be nacho man.”

“Shhhhh. Sleep now.” 

Dick bites his lip to stop laughing and nods. “Yes, boss.” But he’s still highly medicated and sleep comes quickly.

Next thing he knows, he’s awake again, suddenly, trying to sit up and not quite realizing why it’s so hard.

His eyes go comically wide as Donna pushes him back down onto the bed. With one finger. 

"Donna…" Dick whines. And pouts. Maybe it's ridiculous for a grown man, but he doesn't have the best control right now while he's drugged up to the eyebrows after his surgery.

Apparently Donna is immune to puppy dog eyes.

"You have to stay still, Dick, or you'll hurt your arm. The wound is still open, remember? And you have to keep it elevated. If you sit up, your arm won't be as high as it needs to be to get the swelling down." 

For some reason, Donna doesn't sound quite as patient as Dick thinks she should be after he's gone through surgery.

"Can't feel it…" Dick's brow scrunches up as he panics for a moment.

Donna keeps him still. "I'm not even sure how you're moving around yet." And then she laughs and shakes her head. "Still the Boy Wonder," she whispers and pushes his hair out of his eyes. 

"It's okay, Dick. It's the nerve block from the surgery. We're at the Watchtower, remember?" She's watching him intently.

He just tilts his head and looks back, and then realizes she's not usually the one who is here when he wakes up after an injury. "Where… where's Bruce?" He tries to sit up again.

"Gotham. The Joker escaped, but they're handling it." She doesn't offer any details.

"Oh." Dick doesn't like that. They're already short-handed. The singsong happiness has vanished, replaced by anxious worries

Five minutes later Dick asks again, “Wait, where’s Bruce?”

"Dick, honey. Bruce is in Gotham, remember? Stay in that bed," she adds before he can even start moving.

"When did you start reading minds, Wonder Chick?" He's absolutely amazed. Maybe she's had him figured out, before, but he isn't exactly remembering that, right now.

“Gotham. Dealing with the Joker.”

“I . . . I already asked that, didn’t I?”

Donna moves her hand back to his head and strokes his hair. He pushes into the contact and she responds by scratching just a bit harder, as he knew she would. It’s bliss. “You did, but this is the third time you’ve had anesthesia or been sedated in a week. You’re going to be out of it for a while, especially since one of the drugs they gave you today affects memory.”

“That’s why I feel like I have swiss cheese brain.” Dick grins and tries to relax into Donna’s gentle ministrations. 

Donna chuckles. “Swiss Cheese Wonder has a nice ring to it.”

“I’ll keep it in reserve in case I ever give up Nightwing.”

“Will your costume have lots of holes all over?” Donna laughs.

“Definitely. You know, I do miss the neckline of my old costume.”

Donna shakes her head fondly. “Of course you do.”

“Jason calls my old costume Discowing.”

Donna gives a delighted, evil smile. “Discowing. I like it.”

“Oh god, I shouldn’t have told you that,” Dick moans.

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

Dick grins but then sobers as a thought occurs to him. “What if I can’t go back to Nightwing?”

“Hush. Dr. Mid-nite said everything went well. You’ll be fine, your arm is going to heal, and you’ll be back doing swan dives off of skyscrapers before you know it.”

“Good. I don’t want to be Hookwing.” Dick forces a smile. 

“Hey. None of that. You’re not losing the arm, and even if you did, you’d figure it out. It would be hard but it wouldn’t be insurmountable. But I know that’s not going to happen, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now go back to sleep before I make you.”

“Keep on stroking my hair, and I think I will,” Dick says. 

“Deal.”

“Will you be here when I wake up? I mean, you don’t have to be, I’m sure you have things to do, and maybe someone from my family will be here, so it’s okay if you--.”

“Shut up, short pants,” Donna interrupts. “I’ll be here. Zeus himself couldn’t pull me away.”

“I love you Donna.”

“Love you too, you big goof.” 

***

Dick stares at his tumbler of water, seeing the beads of condensation on the outside. “Did you ...?” He gestures with his good hand and doesn’t move to take a drink, yet.

“Surely you didn’t want it warm?” Garth smiles, teasing. 

Dick continues watching the drink, as if it will do something. “Is it safe?” He’s slowly scooting away from the now cold liquid.

“It’s water, Dick. It’s perfectly safe.” Garth is still smiling, if only a little, now.

Dick shakes his head, then closes his eyes tightly and stills. His eyes are still closed when Donna returns.

“Garth! What happened to him? I wasn’t even gone twenty minutes!” Donna rushes to Dick’s side and feels his forehead.

Garth looks sheepish. “I chilled his water, and then he wouldn’t drink it. He started shaking his head and then… this.” Garth can only shrug. It had seemed funny a moment ago, but now…

“Donna?” Dick opens his eyes and chokes out, then quickly closes them again and sits, trying desperately to lean over the side of the bed. “Ugh… gonna…”

Donna quickly grabs a bin from beside the bed and pulls it close, but Dick only dry heaves. “Shhh. Just keep your eyes closed and breathe slowly.” She rubs soothing circles on his back. 

“It’s the painkillers, Garth. They make him sick, and I think they’re affecting his balance, which just makes it worse.” 

She eases him slowly back onto the bed. “Keep them closed, Dick.” She turns to Garth. “Find a damp cloth.”

The Atlantean looks around for a moment before he finds a cloth, then wets it the normal way, just in case, and brings it to her side.

“Thank you.” Donna wipes Dick’s forehead, and then folds it and covers his eyes. “Just like that, Dick. Keep them closed and breathe slowly.”

“I’ll get Dr. Mid-Nite,” Garth says and runs off to fetch him.

He returns a moment later, but it isn’t Dr. Mid-Nite following Garth through the door. 

Brilliant blue eyes assess everything in a fraction of a second. And then the man is pressing steel-strong fingers against an acupressure point in Dick’s good wrist, applying steady pressure with precision control. 

After a moment, Dick relaxes and turns his head to the side, dislodging the cloth. He opens his eyes and a brilliant grin follows. “Uncle Clark!”


	7. I Need Something to Fly Over My Grave Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick gets a hug from Superman. Unfortunately, that's the highlight of his day, and it occurs in the first sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of nausea/feeling sick but Dick doesn't actually get sick.

“Dick.” Superman leans in and wraps careful arms around Dick’s body, enfolding him in a warm and very welcome hug.

“I’ve got laces like a shoe!” Dick gestures vaguely to the arm still suspended from the overhead support. 

Clark laughs as he watches Dick. “So I’ve heard. I’m guessing it isn’t hurting right now, either?” An indulgent smile remains on Clark’s face as he pulls a chair close.

“We’ll come back after your visit,” Donna says, also smiling at Dick’s enthusiasm. She pulls Garth behind her as they leave.

“Bye, Donna! Bye, Garth!” Dick’s color is returning and he relaxes as the nausea eases its hold on him. He turns to Clark. “Not really. Can’t feel much of anything. Which is scary…” He whispers that last as if confiding a secret.

Clark turns his head and looks intently, clearly concentrating on something. “I’m not sure what it looked like before, but the bone appears to be in the very early stages of healing. There’s some swelling, but this new approach looks like it’s working,” he offers, patting Dick on his good shoulder. 

“Really?” Dick can’t hide the hope and need in that one desperate word.

“Really, Dick,” Superman reassures. “I see some heat and pressure and swelling. Infection maybe? But there’s nothing that looks critical or particularly alarming.”

“Yeah. Some infection.” Dick sighs. He still looks a little relieved, but he’s beginning to look tired, too. It’s definitely been a long week for him.

“Well, you’re in good hands, here. I’m a little surprised, though. Don’t normally see you at the Watchtower for medical reasons.” The last time still weighs heavy on all their minds; they’d come far too close to losing him, had thought they’d lost Conner for a time.

“Joker. Too much to ask from Alfred and Leslie with him loose. Didn’t know he was out ‘til I heard Tim ‘n Damian arguing. Was already going to ask Doc Mid-Nite for advice, but decided to have him do the work.” Dick closes his eyes and grabs for Clark’s hand, holding tightly. “I was too much distraction.” 

“Dick, you’re not a distraction. Everyone was just worried for you.” Clark rubs his thumb over the back of Dick’s hand, soothing patterns to relax and reassure, remind him he’s here.

“‘Xactly, Clark. They worried about me. Should have been focusing everything on him. Bruce was already exhausted looking for something to fix my arm. And then he got loose.” Dick shrugs his good shoulder, and continues a little more quietly “I’ve just been a distraction and left ‘em short-handed. Joker’s hard to deal with even when we’re at our best.”

Clark frowns. It’s not normally like Dick to discount his own importance this way. And The Joker is behind bars, already, but it doesn’t sound like anyone from the family has visited or bothered to update Dick. He’s got some investigating to do.

“They can manage, Dick. They’re good at their job.” That much is true. But Dick is definitely looking tired, now, not that he is likely to admit it while Clark is there. “You know… it takes a lot of energy for an injury like this to heal. Maybe you can speed things up a little if you manage to get enough sleep while you’re up here?” Bruce would see right through this, but maybe Dick will be more reasonable.

“You think it’d help?” Dick is willing to grasp at straws right now. He’s tired and frustrated and the stress and painkillers have his emotions and thoughts all over the place right now.

“It can’t hurt, Dick. Sleep for a bit. I’ll stay with you for now.” It’s the least he can do for Dick considering how much Dick always does for others.

“Maybe for just a little bit,” Dick agrees softly. 

In mere moments he’s asleep.

Clark keeps watch, lost in thought.

***

 

Dick is eating peanut butter and cheese crackers - the Watchtower always has his favorite brand - because the nurse says he can’t be discharged until he can keep food down, but other than that he is clear to go home. Dick has had staring contests with Deathstroke, Blockbuster, even the Joker, yet he has never met an opponent as intimidating in quite the same way as this cracker sandwich. He wishes Clark was still around to do that acupressure move. 

Nightwing versus the cracker.

God, he really is losing it. He breathes deeply, summons his willpower, and takes a bite. After some cautious chewing, he decides his stomach is under control enough and he finishes the cracker. 

Clark - Superman, since he’s still in his uniform - pushes a wheelchair into the recovery room.

“Ready to go home?”

“You’re taking me home?”

“Yep.”

“Where’s?” Dick almost says ‘B’ but cuts himself off before he can really start, “Donna or Garth?”

Clark of course knows what Dick was about to say and answers anyway. “Batman is still in Gotham, and I’ve volunteered to bring you back. Assuming you have been officially released, of course.”

“The Joker is still out?” Dick frowns, trying to figure how long it’s been since he heard Damian and Tim arguing about whether or not to tell Dick. “What time is it?”

“The Joker has been returned to Arkham. Something else has come up.”

“And I suppose you’re not going to tell me?” Dick asks ruefully. He studies Clark while slowly chewing another cracker. “You’re good at dissembling, but I know you well enough to know that no one is dead, at least. Another Arkham breakout? Kite Man seen flying kites? A bomb in the subway or the water supply being poisoned again?” Gotham was so messed up. 

“Gotham is still standing. Things have been busy for the League and I wasn’t able to visit earlier. So I thought I might as well catch up with you while also doing something useful. ”

That sure sounds like Clark. Dick’s suspicions aren’t completely allayed, but he is reasonably sure he isn’t going to get home to the entirety of Gotham on fire.

“Well, they told me I can leave as soon as I finish these crackers without getting sick, so I guess I better keep working on them.”

“Good idea. I have a few things to finish up here, but I’ll check back soon.”

“Okay,” Dick says with a cheery wave with his good arm. Four more little cracker sandwiches in the packet. He can do this.

Clark comes back about half an hour later, along with the nurse who takes Dick’s vitals for the forty-millionth and final time and then sets to releasing him from the IV and other tubes and wires.

“So,” Dick asks as the nurse unhooks his arm from the contraption keeping it above heart-level, “the wheelchair was a joke, right?”

“Wrong,” Clark says with a grin.

“Are you going to let me talk you out of making me use it?”

“Nope.”

Dick sighs. “I didn’t think so. I’m not going to sue the Justice League, you know.” He tries to inject some levity into his voice, so that Clark knows he’s joking. 

“What?”

“That’s why hospitals make patients use wheelchairs. To limit liability. But I’m not going to fall, and even if I did, I wouldn’t sue.”

“Did it occur to you that maybe I’m just concerned about you?”

“Maybe. Maybe your alter ego just doesn’t want to have to write the headline, ‘Nightwing Sues Superman.’”

“You’ve been in bed for a week, now, Dick. You’ve had three surgeries, general anesthesia, antibiotics, and painkillers. And I know you. You’re upset, frustrated, probably not taking as many painkillers as you should, so you’re not sleeping well. You aren’t all that different from Bruce, sometimes. Your arm is injured, so I can’t carry you piggyback, you can’t elevate your arm properly in a bridal carry, and a fireman’s carry is completely out of the question. You don’t think you’re going to fall, but I’m not going to take the chance. Give in gracefully, and I’ll fly you from the cave to your bedroom.” Clark isn’t above some good old-fashioned bribery.

Dick’s eyes narrow in distaste at the lack of options, but Clark hasn’t really left him anything he can actually argue. “And you’ll take me flying again once my wound is closed? Long enough to actually enjoy it?” He sounds a little wistful, then. He’s been cooped up inside, stuck in bed for far too long, already.

“As long as there are no other medical reasons to prevent you flying, of course.” Clark knows better than to agree without that disclaimer. Bruce and his boys are notoriously stubborn, especially where injuries are involved, and Dick might be the worst. Clark has always suspected Dick was like that even before Bruce’s influence.

Dick’s already sitting on the edge of the bed in comfy lounge pants and slip-on shoes, and it only takes a minute to unsnap the shirt he’s been wearing in the medical bay and trade it out for one with velcro and magnets down the side and along the arm seams. He adjusts the lightweight mask he’s been wearing since just before he arrived with a hint of his usual devil may care grin. He’s missed it and it feels good to wear at least part of his uniform again. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” 

Clark chuckles and helps Dick lift his arm once more and secures it to a pole attached to the frame of the wheelchair. He waits until Dick’s as comfortable as he’s going to get before grabbing Dick's bag and pushing the chair down the corridors towards the zeta tubes. 

Less than ten minutes later, they're materializing in the cave, and Dick is immediately leaning forward, head between his knees, eyes closed, ripping off his mask.

Clark is immediately at his side with a bucket, just in case, and applying pressure to the same spot on Dick's wrist he'd used earlier. It takes a few minutes, but eventually Dick lifts his head slowly. He opens his eyes just as cautiously, blinking a few times.

"Dizziness and vertigo?" Clark questions, rubbing between Dick's shoulder blades.

"I know Mid-Nite said I might be more sensitive to the zeta after the surgery, after the drugs or whatever, but…" Dick just closes his eyes again. Fuck. He's completely wiped out, now. He hadn't expected it to be this bad. It hadn’t been this bad going up to the Watchtower, so it was probably whatever new drugs they used.

"It shouldn’t be much of a problem after a week or so, so it’s probably a good thing if you don’t travel by zeta tube again until then. This is one of the reasons you're in the wheelchair. " Clark doesn't say 'I told you so,' but he doesn't really need to.

"Can't happen too soon." He keeps his eyes closed and sits back in the chair. "I… think I'll take a raincheck on flying," Dick says, sounding altogether pathetic. "Bed?"

"That bad?" Clark knows it can't be good if Dick doesn't want to fly. Knowing him, it's even worse than he's letting on. He listens closely to Dick's heartbeat, hears the telltale rhythm of pain ignored too long. That bad. "Okay then, just a few more minutes."

Clark pushes Dick across the cave, to the elevators. And then he's wrapping Dick in his cape. "Keep your eyes closed. Deep breaths. Think of sunshine, fields of flowers, elephants, Ma's peach cobbler…" He continues on, a litany of things he knows Dick enjoys, trying to distract him from the vertigo as the elevator ascends to the living quarters of the family.

The elevator doors slide open, and then they're moving down the hallway at a snail's pace. Dick wants nothing more than his bed, and sleep, maybe even his next dose of painkillers. They open the door and his bed is certainly there…

And so is Tim. In a hospital bed of his own, looking pale and drawn, an oxygen mask over his face.

Fuck.

“Clark, can you?” Dick gestures vaguely and can’t even finish his sentence, too worried about Tim to feel annoyed that in the wheelchair, with only one hand, he’s truly reliant on someone else to move him around. To add insult to injury, his right arm is still attached to the pole that’s keeping it elevated.

As soon as he’s close enough, Dick grabs the raised bar of Tim’s hospital bed and pulls himself to standing, despite Clark’s murmur of disapproval, because he needs to see his brother’s face. Tim’s eyes are closed, and a quick glance at machines beeping show that Tim is probably unconsiocus, maybe sedated, based on his heartbeat. Dick smooths Tim’s bangs away from his forehead - a little damp but not feverish - before tweaking Tim’s oxygen mask to center it a bit over his mouth and finally sitting back down.

“Do you know what happened?” Dick asks.

“Joker gas. Caught a bit before he could get his rebreather on.”

“Joker gas doesn’t do . . . this.” 

“Mixed with a bit of standard smoke inhalation. Bruce got him the antidote really quickly, but his lungs were irritated and inflamed. Basically they’re going to treat the smoke inhalation, but in a day or two he should be back on his feet.”

Clark had wheeled Dick to the closest side of the bed from the door, but unfortunately Tim’s hand on that side has the IV and the ox sat monitor on it. Dick settles for placing his hand awkwardly near Tim’s elbow.

“So he’ll be okay?”

“We think so.”

Dick checks the monitors again, more closely this time, but doesn’t see anything alarming. No guarantees, of course, but if Clark is saying that they think Tim’s going to be okay, he can allow his heart beat to subside, tell that sick feeling in the churning of his gut that it’s a false alarm. 

“Why is he here?” Dick asks after a moment, after he feels steadier and calmer and knows that his voice isn’t going to shake. “I mean, not that I mind, at all, but it was a bit of a surprise to see him like this, in my room.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Clark actually sounds sheepish. “I didn’t know he’d be in here, or I would have prepared you first. I don’t know, but I guess someone thought it would be easier to look after you both if you were in the same room.”

Doesn’t that just stab Dick with guilt like a stiletto to the gut. If he hadn’t been hurt, he could have been out there with them, and maybe Tim would be conscious and breathing without a mask right now. Hell, even if Dick hadn’t needed surgery and been such a distraction, dragging the whole family down with their worry over him, maybe Tim would be okay. 

“I’m sure someone will be here in just a minute,” Clark says, and it is all Clark, with just a bit of hesitation, midwestern politeness in his voice. “Do you think we can get you into your bed and resting?”

Dick has to admit that sounds appealing but he feels as if he shouldn’t leave Tim’s side. “Can I sit here for a minute?”

A waft of air that would be a sigh on anyone else, who doesn’t have to carefully parce the velocity and volume of his breath so that they don’t blow away whoever they’re talking to. “I’m not sure that’s such a great idea, bud.”

“Alfred isn’t going to leave Tim alone for long. Just until someone gets back, okay?”

This time Clark does sigh. “You’re very stubborn. You know that right?”

Dick glances over his shoulder to catch Clark’s eye. “You’re not the first person to say that,” he says with a hint of his old grin.

Clark chuckles and Dick knows he’s won. “And I’m sure I won’t be the last.”

Dick turns back to Tim. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t they tell me?”

Clark moves around the bed and takes a seat. “I didn’t know, the first time I saw you today. Then, I thought it would be best if Bruce or Alfred or even I filled you in - once you were resting comfortably in bed.” Dick can’t blame Clark meeting his eyes pointedly at that. “I didn’t expect Tim here, of course.”

“You couldn’t tell? You know, hear him?”

“I could have, if I was listening, but I don’t listen to everything all the time. I was also . . .” 

Clark hesitates and Dick knows exactly what he was going to say. “You were listening to my heart, my breathing, making sure I was okay.”

Clark doesn’t try to lie. “Yes, and I don’t apologize for that.”

Dick knows it makes sense, knows he would do the same thing if he had the powers Clark does, but a small dark part of him keeps nagging, pointing out that he's weak now, compromised, a burden slowing them all down and not pulling his own weight. 

The evidence of that is lying before him, pale and unconscious.

Dick remembers his discussion with Wally, and it feels like two years ago, now, not two days. One of the downsides to the procedure he's chosen is that it's labor intensive, requires careful monitoring of swelling and pressure, requires daily tightening of the sutures slowly closing his wound, requires extra effort to keep his limb elevated, requires extra work for someone who already does too much… just for a chance Dick might have a shorter recovery.

And now Tim is injured, and probably not because Tim ignored an order from the Batman, or developed complications from a simple injury. Tim's here because Dick fucked up to begin with, added to his family's burden, wasn't there to watch their backs. 

Dick feels the unsettling curl of realization in his gut that he’s been horrifyingly selfish here.

"I'm sorry, Clark. None of this is your fault." Clark might not be apologizing, but Dick needs to. Clark's been stuck dealing with him when he surely has better things to do. Dick can't be angry with him, anyway. He’s getting tired, knows he isn’t thinking straight, but he has to know Tim is okay. He shuts down this way of thinking in his friends and teammates instantly, when things are normal, but now, it takes root in the fertile soil of his own self-doubt and frustrations. 

This isn't Alfred's fault either, and yet Dick has signed the man up for extra work, and now Tim's here with him, because it's too much work for Alfred or Leslie, more than they want, should have to put up with. He'll just have to move forward and do as much as he can for himself.

"Dick…” Clark has more than enough experience dealing with injured bats to guess some of what Dick must be thinking now. “None of this is your fault either." It's a stab in the dark, but he hears Dick’s heartbeat stutter as he hits the target.

Dick perches at Tim's side, watching, worrying, waiting, wondering. He hums absently, not an answer, but an acknowledgment maybe, an indication that he doesn’t want to discuss this now. 

Clark moves behind him, a warm hand on Dick’s shoulder, silent support Dick probably doesn’t think he deserves but can’t find the strength to reject. “There’s no permanent damage, Dick. He’ll be fine in a few days.” 

“Barring complications,” Dick can’t help but add. So what if he sounds more pessimistic than usual, but if he’s learned anything since he broke his arm, it’s that recovery doesn’t always go as smoothly as planned. 

“True, but you know Alfred. This isn’t the first time he’s dealt with smoke inhalation, and he knows what to look out for.”

Dick nods. Clark is right, of course. 

“Speaking of Alfred, how about I go look for him, or Bruce? Will you be alright here by yourself for a minute?”

“Go on. I’m fine.” Dick fights the urge to roll his eyes at the caution. At least Clark has stopped trying to get him to lie down. 

Once again, Clark hesitates, clearly having something else to say. Finally, he settles for, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as Dick hears the door click shut behind Clark, he stands up. He knows that Clark can hear him moving around, if he is still listening, but Dick isn’t planning on climbing right into bed next to Tim, as tempting as that is. Instead, he stretches out to reach the slim tablet computer with Tim’s medical chart. He scans it enough to reassure himself that Tim’s condition isn’t more serious than Clark has been letting on, and then relaxes. He’d been so worried to see Tim unconscious, but the chart confirms he’s just sleeping off the Joker gas antidote, which does have sedative properties. 

Dick leans in to replace the tablet, his arm still properly elevated from the pole. The angle is awkward since he has to reach across his body, but he’s managing just fine until the door slams open with a bang behind him. He turns rapidly, but he doesn’t properly take into account the pole, and it pulls painfully at his arm. “Shit!” He steps back towards the chair and has to brace himself against the pole with his bad arm to keep from collapsing. 

“Dick!” Bruce says in a growl.

Tim jerks and his eyes fly open as he doubles over, coughing.

All of that is bad enough, but it’s Alfred that truly makes Dick’s knees tremble.

Alfred speaks so quietly it almost isn’t audible over the hiss of the oxygen mask, but the utter disappointment is scathing nonetheless. “Richard John Grayson, explain yourself, young man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kon/Conner doesn’t appear in this chapter, but he’s mentioned in passing. In this verse, he didn’t actually die in Infinite Crisis, just got lost for a while, sort of like Bruce in Final Crisis (can you tell we’re against heroes dying over and over and tearing families apart? :P)
> 
> [Here's](https://www.hindawi.com/journals/isrn/2012/528382/) an article about the shoelace closure technique that Dick ends up getting. There's one thumbnail of a graphic picture of a real wound but it's not full-sized unless you click.
> 
> [Here's](http://dermaclose.com/) more specifics about the specific kind of device Dr. Mid-Nite uses, but caution - lots of graphic pictures. We're pretending it's made by Star Labs. 
> 
> [Here's](https://www.medicinenet.com/compartment_syndrome/article.htm#what_is_the_prognosis_for_compartment_syndrome) an article about compartment syndrome without any graphic photographs.

**Author's Note:**

> Authors misuse bourbon (wings) and red wine (caramel). Authors also misuse REM lyrics. This is a birthday present for our favorite boy, Dick Grayson. And it's not even late if you're on the West Coast.


End file.
